


The Wish Machine

by justkeeponwriting



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Homeless Castiel, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Slash, urban fairy tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 09:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13121055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkeeponwriting/pseuds/justkeeponwriting
Summary: After moving to White Falls, Dean runs into a homeless man called Castiel, who can grant anyone’s wish. Jobless, friendless, penniless, and desperate for a win, Dean makes a wish. When it comes true, he goes back to make another. And another. And another.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Absolutely no one will get it, but I’m so glad I could use a title that is a reference to an obscure Finnish children’s book from the 50’s.
> 
> This poor fic was stuck in editing hell for a year, but by some miracle, I managed to pull it out of there. Despite the problems I had with this fic, I’m actually very proud of this idea, and I hope I portrayed it well enough. Thank you to all my lovely betas along the way – [KitsuneArashi](http://kitsunelovescas.tumblr.com/), [nihonlove](http://nihonlove.tumblr.com/), and [procasdeanating](http://procasdeanating.tumblr.com/)! This fic wouldn’t be nearly as good without you.
> 
> Happy holidays, everyone! <3

Dean had been living in White Falls for a few weeks when he encountered the sign for the first time. It was a plain cardboard sign, attached to the brick wall of the local library, and it drooped from a single nail on the wall, slowly swaying in the wind. Dean had visited the library a couple of times now, but he had never taken note of such an unimpressive sign. Subconsciously, he’d dismissed it as vandalism, and hadn’t even read it.

Now, though, he stopped to read it for the first time. In block letters, it said, “MAKE A WISH,” and had an arrow pointing left and downwards, indicating the stairs on the corner of the library. Dean had never used them, as he’d always supposed that they led to the basement of the library, or a cul-de-sac filled with garbage. Curiously, he glanced at the stairs, but from the distance, he couldn’t see anything but a stairway leading into the dark. The library building and the huge office complex next to it shadowed the narrow alley, and it was clear that the alley wasn’t part of the original building plans – it looked like useless space someone had forgotten to fill.

Dean was about to continue his walk, but something stopped him. The thing was, Dean was kind of bored with his life in White Falls already, and he hadn’t even been here for two full months. It might have had something to do with the fact that he was unemployed, single, and penniless – and he couldn’t blame anyone but himself for that. It might not have been his best idea to uproot his life and move to the middle of nowhere with no promise of a job, a house, or even friends, but that was the kind of spite-fueled hastiness that being dumped after four years will awaken in you. (During his loneliest moments, Dean thought that he didn’t even miss Lisa as much as he missed Ben, her kid, who Dean had been prepared to adopt. He had wanted to try again, but Lisa hadn’t.) When people made sudden and huge life changes in fiction, it always seemed to work out effortlessly for them. So far, Dean’s living in White Falls had been anything but a montage of wonderful, new experiences. He had wanted to start anew, but twiddling his thumbs in his bare apartment with just a mattress, and whatever few trinkets he had been able to fit in his car when he left Indiana, hadn’t exactly been what he had in mind.

So, yes, in that sense, Dean absolutely wanted to make a wish. He was getting desperate enough to throw a penny into a well, like a wide-eyed four-year-old. If there was anything that would help him get a job, or a new friend, or stop the frustrating limbo he’d fallen into, he’d do that.

With that in mind, Dean descended the stairs. The old, rusty metal steps creaked under his feet, and for a second, Dean had an irrational fear that the stairs would collapse under him. That, naturally, didn’t happen, and Dean reached the end of the stairs without incident.

Reaching the basement level was disappointing: it was a cul-de-sac, with three metal dumpsters painted with a horrifying shade of green, just as he had pictured. It was dark in there, because there was no light source anywhere in the alley, and the library building on the right and the office building on the left cast long shadows on it. Dean looked around, but he didn’t see a well or anything the sign might’ve been pointing at. Dean sighed – looked like it was a joke sign made by sixth-graders, after all, and like a fool, Dean had fallen for it. That’s how desperate he had become.

Dean was about to turn around and head back up the stairs, when he heard something move between the dumpsters. Startled, Dean walked closer, and that’s when he noticed the person sitting in between the trash cans. Dean’s first thought was that a homeless person was hiding in there, but when he saw the man, he stopped to reconsider. The dark-haired man sitting on the ground was dressed in suit pants, loafers, and a trench coat. Under the coat, Dean even saw a tie and a white shirt, completing the image. The dark stubble covering his cheeks made it look like he hadn’t shaved in a few days, but nothing worse than that. It also made it hard to discern the man’s age, but he seemed to be around Dean’s age. The man looked more like an office worker than a homeless person, and that made Dean hesitate.

The man didn’t look up when Dean walked closer. He was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, and his eyes didn’t seem to be focused on anything in particular. He was hunched over, but he didn’t seem to be hurt. Still, Dean asked,

“Hey, buddy, are you alright?”

That made the stranger pay attention. He looked up at Dean, seemingly surprised that someone had approached him, but the confusion cleared away immediately.

“Oh, hello.”

“Hi,” Dean said, stopping a few feet from the stranger. His eyes tracked Dean, attentive and curious, but he didn’t seem to be interested in a conversation. A little awkwardly, Dean continued, “What’re you sitting here for?”

That, finally, made the stranger react. He looked Dean in the eye and asked, “What would you like to wish for?”

“What?”

“What do you wish for?”

The man was looking at him like this was a perfectly normal thing to ask a stranger, and Dean couldn’t for the life of him figure out what he was playing at. Maybe he was that obligatory, local kook who sat in the dark and gave out random pearls of wisdom in exchange for booze? Maybe he was a homeless, crazy person after all, and Dean was just too new to town to know better and avoid him?

“I, uh,” Dean said. The man continued to stare at him, all of his attention focused on Dean, but Dean couldn’t think of anything to say. He backed away.

“I’ll just…” Dean awkwardly gestured at the stairs, not knowing what he was trying to say any better than the man.

The man didn’t say anything. He nodded, and turned back to stare at the wall, as if going into a power save mode. Dean glanced at him one last time, flabbergasted, before he walked up the stairs.

Being back on the street level felt like he had just gone to the underworld and had barely gotten out of there alive, and for some reason, Dean felt shaken by the encounter. Confused, he started to walk down the street, with no particular destination in mind.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean didn’t really have friends in White Falls, but he had a feeling he could get one in Charlie Bradbury. Charlie was a barista at the coffee house Dean had found on his first week in White Falls, and because she was such a curious ball of sunshine and snark from the first time he ordered a coffee to go, he had never felt the need to try the other coffee shops in the town. Dean had also ran into Charlie in the library two times, and both times they had stopped to chat about the fantasy novels Charlie was checking out. Point was, they had established a couple of mutual interests, and Dean liked Charlie’s company, and he was fairly sure she liked his company, too. She had taken to sitting down at his table when he stopped by the coffee shop (Dean refused to call the shop by its cringe-inducing name, “Coffeetopia”), and often chatted with him when she had a moment. Dean kind of wanted to ask her to spend more time with him, but he didn’t know how to do that without asking her _out_ , which he didn’t want to do. Charlie was cute and energetic, but he had never gotten any sexual vibes from her.

As usual, Charlie greeted him with enthusiasm as he entered the coffee shop. It was midday, so the shop was dead quiet. White Falls wasn’t that big a town, but from nine to five, it was almost dead, as Dean had noticed during his daily walks. So far, he’d been unable to figure out what else to do with all his free time, except visit the library, fill out more job applications, and explore his new hometown.

“Hi, Charlie. Busy day?”

“I’m dying from stress,” Charlie said with an exaggerated groan, and gestured around the empty shop. “Please, I need you to save me.”

“I don’t know how you’ll survive,” Dean quipped. “Coffee, black, thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Charlie said with a wave, and turned around to fix Dean his coffee. Dean let his eyes wander around the shop as he waited. He had never figured out the theme of the café: it seemed to be cheap rip-off of Starbucks, but with bright green colors rather than the muted theme Starbucks used. The photographs littering the walls gave personality to the shop, even if Dean didn’t know who the people in the pictures were. Perhaps past workers, the owners, famous customers?

“One boring black coffee, right here,” Charlie chirped, and Dean rolled his eyes as he paid for the coffee. He hesitated, but only for a moment, and then took one of the two seats by the counter. It wasn’t like he couldn’t move, if any more customers wandered in, and besides, Charlie seemed desperate for a conversation.

He wasn’t wrong. Charlie immediately took a seat as well, and started to complain how boring Tuesdays were. Almost no one came to the shop during Tuesdays, and since she had already cleaned up the shop so that it was spotless, there was nothing to do.

“Read Cracked on your phone?” Dean suggested. Charlie harrumphed.

“Like I haven’t done that. But reading ‘Five Ways People Are Even Stupider Than We Thought’ type of articles gets repetitive, at some point. And I don’t think I could get away with bringing my laptop here. My boss would skin me alive if I did that…even if I told him I could redesign the awful website they have.”

“Coffeetopia has a website?”

“See? No one even knows that. It’s been there since the nineties. I don’t think anyone’s ever updated it, except to remove that awful MIDI file that looped every thirty seconds. That was their idea of bringing the site into the new century.”

They chatted about the boredom of the coffee shop for a moment, then the weather, and Dean even remembered to ask about the book he saw Charlie check out last. That made her light up, and she eagerly told Dean all about it – Dean barely had to say anything. He liked that about Charlie: she was so excited about the world around her, and made everyone else feel the same excitement.

When there was a lull in the conversation, Dean finally brought up what he had wanted to ask since he walked into the shop.

“So, uh, have you noticed that sign in the corner of the library?”

Charlie blinked at him. “What sign?”

“You know, that one that says…make a wish…or something.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. It’s been there for ages.”

“So, uh, who’s the guy sitting down there in the dark? Is he guarding the…whatever you use to make a wish?” Dean tried to keep his tone light, in case Charlie didn’t know what he was talking about, but he didn’t need to worry. She laughed, and immediately said,

“Oh, that’s Castiel, our local genie.”

“Genie?”

“Well, it’s like the sign says. Make a wish, it comes true.” At Dean’s confused look, Charlie continued, “It’s true! No one really knows how he does it, but you ask him for something, and it happens.”

Dean furrowed his eyebrows. “You’re yanking my chain, aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

“Genies aren’t real.”

“Yeah, well, maybe he’s a not a genie. A good-luck charm, then. Or something like that.”

Dean couldn’t answer for a while. He didn’t really know Charlie, but the impression he had gotten of her was that while she had a tendency to be overly excited, she wasn’t _mean_ – she wouldn’t trick him just for the sake of it. And she seemed to be at ease, like she truly believed what she was saying.

“You really think he’s a genie?”

“Something like that,” Charlie said with a shrug.

“You’re serious,” Dean stated. Charlie gave him a wry smile.

“If I can see it with my own eyes, I believe it.”

“So, what’d he give you?” Dean countered, but Charlie didn’t seem put off at all.

“That’s classified information, but rest assured, I was very happy with it.”

“You do realize that that doesn’t make it sound very believable, right?”

“Why don’t you try talking to him yourself? See what the fuss is all about.”

Dean scoffed. “Get out of here.”

“Your loss,” Charlie said, shrugging. They continued to talk about other subjects, but Castiel the genie lingered in Dean’s mind.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, Dean didn’t have any reason _not_ to try talking to Castiel, so a few days after his discussion with Charlie, he went to do just that. Worst case scenario, Charlie was delusional, and Castiel the good-luck charm was just an ordinary guy who lived by the dumpsters because he had lost his job. And, best case scenario, he was for real, and what was the downside to having a few wishes fulfilled?

The sign looked just as downtrodden as it had the first time: it had been beaten by the rain, probably for months. It was a miracle that the text was readable at all. Decision made, Dean descended the stairs into the dark.

The alley was depressingly unchanged, and a bit reluctantly, Dean descended into the darkness. This time, Dean saw Castiel’s legs poke out between the trash cans, and feigning confidence, he stepped forward.

“Hi,” Dean said.

“Hello,” Castiel said right away. He raised his head, as if waking up, and his eyes came to rest on Dean’s face.

“You’re Castiel, right?”

“They call me that, yes,” the man answered, in an oddly stilted way, like he wasn’t exactly sure why Dean wanted to know that.

“You got a surname to go with that?”

Castiel lowered his eyes. It was just for a moment, but Dean immediately understood that he wasn’t going to get an answer.

“It is of no import,” Castiel finally said. Then, he lifted his eyes up again, looking straight at Dean. “What would you like to wish for?”

This time, Dean wasn’t put off by Castiel’s blue eyes eerily staring at him. Dean steadily stared back.

“I wish for a job.”

“What kind of a job?” Castiel asked.

“Uh,” Dean faltered. He hadn’t exactly prepared for a job interview. “I used to be used car salesman.”

“But?” Castiel asked. Dean didn’t question how he heard the underlying “but” in Dean’s sentence.

“I hated it. I didn’t want to sell junk to people who clearly didn’t know how to fix that shit. But you had to make the sales goals, or you didn’t have a job to come back to.”

Castiel gave him a wry smile. Dean blinked; that was the first time he had seen Castiel show any kind of emotion.

“So, you don’t wish to sell cars again.”

“Hell no.”

“What would you like to do, then?”

“I dunno,” Dean said. “I don’t exactly have any special skills. Just a GED. I barely finished high school.”

“Would you like to go back to school, then?”

“I ain’t got no money for that,” Dean said. He tried not to let his bitterness show – he knew perfectly well that his parents didn’t have the money to educate both of their children. His brother Sam had always been more book-smart, so he was the obvious choice to invest in. Dean was glad that Sam was in Stanford University now, studying to be a lawyer, but he couldn’t help but feel a slight pinch of resentment when he thought of his mom telling him they didn’t have enough money to send Dean to college. But there was nothing Dean could have done, at that point; his grades had been average but nothing spectacular, and he didn’t have any special gifts. He had no hope of getting scholarships, and he definitely couldn’t pay for college all by himself. So, he’d worked wherever he could ever since high school, moved from place to place, wasted four years in a rocky relationship with Lisa, and then ended up in White Falls. His resume was spotty, and at twenty-seven, he felt like he was way too old to start over.

Dean chuckled to himself. “I would need to earn money to get a degree, but in order to earn money, you need a degree.”

“The world works in mysterious ways,” Castiel agreed, again with that wry smile. “So, you want to earn money in order to get an education. What would you study?”

Dean didn’t know why he felt compelled to reveal his secret desires to a local homeless “genie,” but he found it easy to do.

“I kind of want to study medicine,” he said. “Become a nurse. I don’t know if I have enough drive to become a doctor.”

“Why a nurse?” Castiel asked. There was no judgment in his voice, just curiosity, and Dean further relaxed at that.

“I guess I want to help people. Make a difference. I’m not smart enough to change the world otherwise, but—”

“I highly doubt that,” Castiel said, and that surprised Dean so much that he stopped speaking. Castiel looked at him, unwavering, and said, “I have met many stupid people. You are nothing like them.”

“Um,” Dean said. “Thank you?”

Castiel nodded, accepting the thanks. “With enough conviction, I don’t doubt that you could become a doctor, even.”

“I don’t know about that,” Dean muttered, awkward. He had been told the opposite his whole life: don’t reach for the stars, you can’t do it anyway, don’t even dream about it, you don’t have the money for it. It was odd to hear someone tell him that if he wanted to, he _could_ do it.

To change the subject, Dean asked, “So, uh, how does this work?”

The subtle change didn’t really work, because Castiel gave him a small smile, but didn’t answer.

“Am I supposed to pay you?” Dean continued.

“If you want to,” Castiel said.

“How much?”

“Whatever you want to give.”

“Huh?”

“Whatever you want to give,” Castiel repeated, still looking at Dean, although this time, he seemed a little subdued. His gaze had lost its spark, and Dean got the feeling that he wasn’t expecting Dean to give him anything.

Dean mused this for a moment. He guessed that Castiel really was homeless. Since he could imagine how that might feel – Dean had never been homeless, since he’d always had his car, but even that had cut it too close at times – he reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. Castiel nodded when Dean handed him twenty bucks, but his eyes didn’t recover that spark that had been there earlier.

“Um. Sorry, I don’t have more on me,” Dean said. “I guess I’ll need to give you a bigger tip if this actually works,” he added, trying to lighten the mood.

“It will,” Castiel assured him. Then he sat back, already assuming his earlier position, and Dean could see him retreating into that power-save mode of sorts. It was clear that the conversation was over, so Dean turned to leave.

“See you around, Castiel,” Dean said as he walked away, not knowing what else to say.

Castiel didn’t respond, but Dean thought that he saw him lift his fingers slightly, as if giving the world’s smallest hand wave.

Only after coming back to the street-level did Dean realize that he never even told Castiel his name. He had told Castiel about his silly dream of becoming a nurse, about his money problems, essentially baring his soul, and Castiel didn’t even know his name.

Maybe it was for the better. It wasn’t like someone was suddenly going to grab him by the hand and drag him to the nearest hospital to learn a new profession. If he wanted a job, he had to _work_ for it.

Dean snorted at himself, and started to walk home.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean didn’t really believe in Castiel’s powers, but since talking to Castiel made him feel lighter and gave him new energy to apply for jobs, he counted it as a win. Two days after visiting Castiel, Dean was sitting in the library, surfing the internet for new job applications, when his phone rang.

Dean didn’t recognize the number, and that made him wary. Sam called only occasionally, his parents even rarer, and Dean didn’t actually have any friends who would call him. Everyone he knew back in Indiana were Lisa’s friends, so Dean lost them, too, when he lost Lisa, and he hadn’t made any new friends after arriving to White Falls. Charlie might have counted as an acquaintance, but she didn’t have his number.

Still, Dean answered, because it might have been important.

“Hello?”

“Is this Dean Winchester?” a gruff male voice asked.

“Yeah?”

“I understand you’re looking for a job,” the voice continued, and Dean thought, _No fucking way_. There was no way someone would call him out of the blue to offer him a job. Things like that just didn’t happen. This had to be a sham.

“I am,” Dean said, but only because he was suspicious as hell and wanted to see what the caller wanted.

“Charlie mentioned that you’ve worked with cars,” the voice continued, and with that mention, Dean’s suspicions started to wane, if only slightly.

“Charlie Bradbury talked to you?”

“She lives in my neighborhood,” the voice continued. “Balls. I never introduced myself, did I? This is Bobby Singer, from the _Singer Salvage_. She said you have experience with cars, and I’ve been looking for someone to help me out in the yard.”

Dean was still wary, but the longer he talked to Bobby Singer, the less suspicious he became. He remembered walking by the _Singer Auto Shop & Salvage Yard_ once, when he went to the far edge of the town, so it was definitely a real place. When he started to talk about repairing cars, all the technical details that they discussed confirmed that Bobby knew what he was talking about. Dean agreed to meet Bobby the next day at the _Singer Salvage_ , and although he didn’t know what to expect, he had an oddly good feeling about the meeting.

Bobby Singer turned out to be just as grumpy as his voice had indicated. Strangely, he reminded Dean of his dad, although with a soft side his dad never had, and Dean immediately liked him. Bobby showed him around the _Singer Salvage_ , and while the place was full of junk, the main house falling apart, and Bobby’s dogs stared at him with challenge in their eyes, Dean felt at home. He could see himself working here until he figured out what he actually wanted to do with his life, and the safety of a regular paycheck was all he needed right now.

The hiring process in itself was the easiest Dean had ever gone though. Bobby asked him, “You fixed that monster of a car all by yourself?” after Dean told him about his Chevy Impala and how he had to rebuild it after an accident, and when Dean said yes, Bobby grunted, “You’re hired.”

Even if the interview went well from the beginning, Dean was still kind of surprised, because he didn’t have a proper degree, not even proper experience, just his own word that he was an amateur mechanic and once sold cars for a living. Dean grinned at that, and Bobby grunted and told him not to be late the next day.

Dean sang along to Taylor Swift songs the entire trip back to the town, and he couldn’t have cared less about who might hear him. He was too happy to care.

 

* * *

 

Dean’s first day at _Singer Salvage_ was tiring, but that was what Dean had expected, and so he was in a good mood when he finished up on his first day. Bobby wasn’t as much of a hard-ass as he pretended to be, and let Dean do things his own way, as long as he got results. Dean liked Bobby’s attitude, and had a feeling that Bobby might like his just the same.

During his first week, Dean learned the routine of the job, and soon discovered that despite first impressions, there wasn’t actually that much to do at the auto shop. People came and went, but there was rarely any real rush, and Dean wondered why Bobby wanted to hire help at all. But when he watched how stiffly Bobby moved sometimes, how he sometimes took ages to bend and pick something up, how he sometimes leaned on his knees like he was exhausted, and how he muttered curses at himself when he thought that Dean couldn’t hear him… Dean realized that maybe Bobby needed more help than he was willing to admit. At least he had hired a helping hand, and that was a start.

On Saturday, his first day off from his new job, Dean suddenly remembered that he didn’t actually get the job on his own. Strangely, he had almost forgotten about Castiel, the good-luck charm who got him the job in the first place. Every day, he had come back home, comfortably exhausted from the day’s work, and thought how lucky he was to have something to do, but he had completely forgotten how he had ended up here. Dean glanced at the clock and hesitated; it was past five o’clock, he’d eaten and had made a nice little nest on his couch with a book and a glass of whiskey (the only comforts he had in his bare apartment), and he didn’t want to go out right now. Regardless, he reasoned that he should at least go talk to Castiel again, let him know that his magic, mojo, whatever it was, worked, and ask for everything else his heart desired, since Castiel was clearly the real deal.

What he couldn’t understand was, why wasn’t the whole town queuing in front of Castiel’s sad little alley and asking for whatever they wanted? Or maybe, Dean realized with a sinking heart, Castiel could only fulfill one wish. He really should’ve asked about that before wishing. Maybe he had just missed out on his chance to become a neurosurgeon in one night.

With that in mind, Dean shut his book, drowned the rest of his whiskey, and headed out. The only good thing about Dean’s poor little apartment was that it was situated in the middle of the town, so it was within an easy walking distance from everything important (except for Dean’s new job). Dean rushed to the library, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when he saw the same beaten down sign still hanging from the wall. At least he hadn’t imagined that.

Castiel was sitting in the same place as always: between the dumpsters, staring into nothing with his legs drawn to his chest. He looked up when Dean bounced down the stairs and stopped in front of him.

“I got a job!” Dean announced with a grin. That seemed to wake Castiel up from his standby-mode, as his face softened into a tiny smile.

“Congratulations,” Castiel said.

“Man, I can’t believe this. You’re actually for real. How’d you do that?”

Perhaps he should’ve expected it, but Dean was still disappointed when Castiel only lowered his eyes and fell silent. Frowning, Dean said,

“Sorry, I get it, you don’t wanna talk about it.”

Castiel might have muttered something akin to “it’s not that,” but his voice was too small for Dean to hear properly. There was an awkward pause, and Dean scratched his neck as he searched for something to say.

“So uh, just wanted to say thanks. You got me a job.” Castiel shook his head, as if to say, “No need to thank me,” and Dean barreled on, “I guess I should’ve asked this before making a wish, but is there a limit to how many times I can ask you for something?”

“No. There is no limit.”

“Oh. Wow. So…” Dean looked straight into Castiel’s eyes, but he didn’t know what he was looking at. Castiel didn’t seem to be disturbed by the staring, but his face didn’t betray any kind of emotion. “Is there a limit to what you can do, then?”

“Yes. There are certain limits.”

“Huh. Rules of magic.”

“In a sense,” Castiel said. “I cannot bring anyone back from the dead, before you ask.”

“Is that a thing people often ask for?”

“More times than I care to count.”

Dean clicked his tongue. “No bringing people back from the dead, gotcha. What about making me the president?”

“If it’s feasible.”

“Huh?”

“The rules are simple,” Castiel said, and something in his demeanor seemed to relax. “I cannot make anyone anything they do not have the probability of becoming.”

“…run that by me again.”

“Unless you have realistic chances, connections, or opportunities for something, I cannot create them out of thin air.”

“So, basically, if you have a shitload of money and have a talent for manipulating the right people, you could become the president.”

“…Yes.”

“Putting a pin on that thought,” Dean muttered. “How about giving me a million dollars?”

Castiel almost smiled. “If you don’t buy lottery tickets, you cannot win the lottery.”

“Gotta start investing in them, then. How about a love potion?”

“I cannot interfere with anyone’s free will.”

“Time-traveling?”

“I cannot alter reality.”

“So you can’t make the young Harrison Ford fall in love with me?”

Castiel barked out a laugh, startled. “I don’t know who that is, but I’m afraid not. I cannot age anyone down, only slow aging itself. And unless you had a connection with her in the past or had met her, I cannot force anyone to fall in love with a stranger.”

“Him.”

“What?”

“Harrison Ford’s a he,” Dean said. He felt sweat gather to his neck, even if he knew that it was a ridiculous phantom sensation, and awkwardly stared back at Castiel.

“Oh. Apologies.”

“You’re…okay with that?”

“What?”

“That I just asked if you could make a dude fall in love with me.”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay with that?” Castiel asked, baffled.

“Uh. Not everyone is, so…”

“People are so strange sometimes,” Castiel muttered.

Dean felt a strange rush of affection as he saw Castiel’s affronted face. “Okay. No asking dead people back, no time-traveling, and no making anyone fall in love with me against their will.”

“No,” Castiel said, and Dean spied a little bit of humor with that tone.

“Ready for my second wish?”

“Of course.”

“I wish to make friends,” Dean said. He flushed with embarrassment when Castiel’s face slackened with surprise. “Shit, that sounds so juvenile. But I mean—I’ve been living here for two months, and I don’t really know anyone, and it’s…”

“You’re lonely,” Castiel said, and Dean saw no point in denying that.

“Kind of, yeah.”

Castiel nodded. They fell silent for a moment, but strangely, it wasn’t awkward – it was an understanding silence. Castiel kept looking at Dean like he, too, knew what it was like to be lonely, and Dean belatedly realized that of course Castiel would understand that. He lived on the streets: it was obvious that he didn’t have anyone he could go to ask for help.

Dean coughed. “Um. So, will you make me friends, now?”

“You will make them yourself,” Castiel said. “I’m somewhat surprised, I have to admit. I was certain you would ask me for a million dollars.”

Dean grinned when he saw the corners of Castiel’s eyes crinkle. “Damn. I’ll remember to wish for that, next time.”

“Next time,” Castiel repeated. He fell silent again, glancing elsewhere, and Dean sensed that the conversation had come to an end.

“Guess I’m off to make friends, huh?”

“You will,” Castiel said, confident. Then he leaned back, his face closing off, and Dean could practically see the second he disconnected from the world. It was a little disconcerting, but since Dean couldn’t figure out what else to say or do, he smiled and said, like last time, “See you around, Castiel.”

Castiel didn’t say anything, but Dean was certain that he waved back, this time.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Remembering Castiel’s rules – or guidelines, more like – for the wish, Dean set out to make it easier for the universe. It wasn’t like he was a hermit even before making the wish, but he stopped hanging in his apartment after work. When he’d been unemployed, aimlessly walking around had been the best way he could think of to waste time, but after getting a job, he’s had no desire to leave the comfort of his apartment after a long day of fixing cars. It had become a comfortable routine to stay home, curl up on his couch with a blanket and a good book, and fall asleep there.

So, trying to make an effort, Dean forced himself to go outside for walks, to the library, to the coffee shop, to the grocery store, whatever he could think of. It was different from when he was unemployed, though: he actually had money to buy things, and he noticed that his walks were more purposeful. He was no longer wandering around, looking for things to do, but rather, aware that he had only a few hours before he had to get back home and prepare for the next day at work. It was strangely stressful.

But like last time, it didn’t take long for Dean’s wish to come true. On Tuesday, he talked to a few people in a charming little bookstore on main street, and it felt like a win when the owner of the shop, Anna Milton, specifically invited him to a book reading at the shop next weekend. It was a start, and Dean was feeling good when he went to pick up a cup of coffee for the evening. He didn’t really want coffee (having caffeine after six o’clock didn’t bode well for his sleeping patterns), but he figured he could say hi to his favorite barista, at least.

Surprisingly, Charlie was behind the counter when Dean entered. She’d always been in the coffee shop when Dean had visited, and Dean would have suspected that she was the only worker there, if it weren’t for the fact that the shop was open from 7 AM to 9 PM, every day. There was no way anyone loved their job that much.

Tuesday’s curse held up: Charlie was leaning against the counter and making origami birds out of napkins when Dean entered. There was one teenaged couple in the shop, but they were obviously on a date, and completely absorbed in each other in the corner booth. The soft music playing on the background only emphasized the stillness of the shop, and it almost felt like he was breaking the atmosphere as his steps echoed in the shop.

“Hiya, Charlie. Holding up the fort all by yourself, again?”

Charlie straightened up, the origami cranes forgotten. “Dean! Wonderful, I was beginning to miss my favorite customer.”

“I’m your favorite?”

“You always order the same thing, and it’s literally the easiest thing on the list to make. Duh, of course you’re my favorite.” She smiled. “So, what’ll it be?”

“You know, just for that, I’m going to order a macchiato.”

“Heathen,” Charlie said, but turned to make the drink with a smile on her face. Dean glanced at the teenaged couple as he waited; the girl, a sharp-looking brunette, was giggling as the boy leaned towards her and said something in a low voice. Their voices were drowned by a soft tenor voice flowing from the radio, and Dean found himself irritably interested in the music.

“Kristy deserves better,” Charlie muttered when she noticed Dean’s look. “He’s not a good kid, that Henry. But he’s got a _car_ and he plays _football_ , so obviously he’s like, totally hot.”

“She’ll figure it out in time,” Dean muttered back. He pointed upwards. “What is this crap, anyway? It’ll take weeks to get this worm out of my ear.”

“Dude, do _not_ insult Barry Manilow in front of me. He’s a guilty pleasure if there ever was one.”

Dean lifted his hands in surrender. He dared to take a seat by the counter once again, because there was no one else in line, and it was a good choice, since Charlie seemed delighted to have something else to do than folding napkins. They chatted for a while, and Charlie tried to convince Dean to read a sci-fi book she had loaned last week, because as she put it, “Lesbians in space! What’s not to love?” Dean couldn’t argue with that logic.

The young couple left at some point – with Charlie giving Kristy a smile and a scowl to Henry – leaving Charlie and Dean all alone in the shop, which was as usual. They continued to talk, and Dean felt like it was going well, until there was a lull in the conversation that Charlie broke with a grin.

“Oh, hey, I was wondering, you seem like a cool dude, so…”

_Oh no_ , Dean thought. He wanted friends, not a girlfriend, and Charlie’s open interest was hard to interpret otherwise. He didn’t know how to turn Charlie down, and he didn’t know if he even should – that’s how desperate for company he was.

“My wife and I are having a game night this Saturday. Do you wanna join us? We’re playing Munchkin! If we get enough players, that is. Garth is still undecided,” Charlie prattled on, and it took a few seconds for Dean to re-calibrate his brain.

“Wait, your wife?” Dean asked. Charlie stopped, and gave Dean a thoughtful look.

“Yeah. Is that a problem?”

“No, no,” Dean said. “That’s…actually, that’s a relief. I was afraid you were going to ask me out.”

Charlie laughed. “Oh, Dean, you’re nice, but not so nice that I’d switch teams for you.”

“Switch—oh!”

“Gold-star lesbian here,” Charlie said, with a satisfied grin. “And I’m not about to ruin my reputation, not even for your pretty face.”

“Trust me, I don’t want you to,” Dean said. “And uh, while we’re being honest here, I’m bi, so…”

“Oh, nice! Welcome to the LGBT and friends club!” Charlie said. She lifted her hand, and chuckling a little, Dean gave her a high-five. “Now we’re…seven strong! Eventually, we’ll take over this miserable little town.”

“Seven?” Dean repeated. “Anyone I know?”

“Probably not. You’ll meet some at the game night,” Charlie said. “You’ll come, right?”

“Guess I’m obligated to, as the newest member,” Dean said with a grin. He felt better than he’d felt in ages, and Charlie’s answering smile told him that he was about to make a friend for life.

 

* * *

 

 

That Saturday, Dean did more socializing than previous months put together. Anna Milton, the bookstore owner, was delighted to see Dean attend the gathering, and Dean spent half an hour talking with her before the reading. Dean didn’t even know the author who had come to the shop to read excerpts from their new book, but it hardly mattered. There were a lot of people in the shop, everyone seemingly knowing each other and talking animatedly, and Dean fit right in. Two of the regular customers Dean had talked to before, Victor Henriksen and Layla Rourke, also stopped to talk with him. Victor had brought his wife Nancy to the reading, and Dean eagerly shook hands with her and listened to her talk about beat poetry, of all things, because he actually liked Victor and Nancy. He got the feeling that it was mutual, and that he might actually be making friends.

After the book reading (which was entertaining, even if historical fiction wasn’t Dean’s thing), Dean went to Charlie and her wife Gilda’s place. They lived on the outskirts of town, a little ways from the _Singer Salvage_ , on the “gloomy side of town,” as Charlie had worded it. Dean wondered why anyone would want to live far away even from as small a town as White Falls, but he got it the second he saw the house.

White Falls was a dry place otherwise, with grass that wasn’t keen on growing and trees that seemed to have given up. Charlie and Gilda lived in a _paradise_ compared to the dryness everywhere else in and around the town. The little blue house was surrounded by luscious green grass, flowers, and bushes filling the yard as far as anyone could see. Left of the house, there was a small greenhouse, and as Dean learned from Gilda’s tour, they grew cucumbers, basil, tomatoes, and things that Dean couldn’t even pronounce there. It being September, not everything they usually had was growing, but the greenhouse was still full of wonderful warmth and moisture, and the smell that permeated the air was delicious. Dean had never had an interest in gardening, but looking around, he thought he might develop one, if it lead to _this_.

“It’s a little ways from my job, but worth it, isn’t it?” Charlie smirked when she saw Dean’s awed expression.

“Totally worth the drive,” Dean said. “Man, I’d give anything to live in a place like this. My apartment is miserable compared to this.”

“There’s lots of free land around us,” Gilda chirped from the left side of the greenhouse. She was checking the bushes of basil, clearly debating whether or not to crank up the moisture, but decided against it. Dean liked her: she was spirited and quirky, like Charlie, and wonderfully welcoming despite meeting Dean for the first time, and at her own house, nonetheless.

“Don’t know if I’d be good at living this remote,” Dean said. “I’ve never lived anywhere except in an apartment. And big cities.”

“How’d you end up in White Falls?” Gilda asked, curious. It was a fair question; White Falls was tiny compared to basically every city Dean had ever lived in, and he didn’t move here for a girl, or a guy, or even a job.

With a burst of honesty, Dean said, “I threw a dart and it landed on this tiny ass town.”

“Really?” Gilda laughed, but then she saw Dean’s expression. “Really? Oh, wow. You didn’t know anything about this place before you arrived, did you?”

“Nah. Like I said, I just picked a place and drove here. Rented the first apartment I found.”

“Well, that wasn’t difficult,” Charlie muttered. “That apartment complex has been nearly empty for years. It’s falling apart, and Crowley – the owner of most things here – doesn’t want to invest in it, so of course, no one wants to rent there.”

“I’ve noticed, yeah,” Dean said, thinking of the leaking tap in his kitchen and the cracks in the walls.

“What did you run from, then?” Gilda asked. “You had to be running from something, if you left that fast.”

She was direct, but not insulting, and Dean shrugged at her. “Bad break-up. I didn’t have anything to stay for, and nowhere else in particular to go, so…”

“You threw a dart.”

“Yeah.”

Gilda smiled. “Wise decision. It landed you here.”

Charlie and Gilda’s friends were just as entertaining as they were. There was Ash, a bartender who seemed to be stuck in the 80s as far as his style was concerned, but was surprisingly sharp. Dean didn’t know how to feel about Ed and Harry, two guys who constantly talked about ghosts and haunted places, but Charlie quietly ensured Dean that they were okay – she met them on a _Lord of the Rings_ forum, after all. Another man named Harry was Charlie’s friend from work, and he was a little quiet and had an obvious, awkward crush on Charlie, but Gilda seemed to regard it with humor. There was also Jo, who Gilda described as “a firecracker, college dropout, and occasional circus employee,” and Dean didn’t know which one of those was a lie, or if anything was. Finally, there was Tessa, a quiet and unassuming girl who didn’t seem to fit in at all – that was, until they started to play. She destroyed them all in Munchkin, as well as in everything else they played. She even won at Monopoly, and that was the point where people started to protest and throw things at her. It was all in jest, and Tessa took all the jabs with good humor and a glint in her eye. It was obvious that this had happened many times before.

It was a great evening, by all accounts. Dean enjoyed the easy banter between the friends, and felt effortlessly included in the group. In the end, he got Ash’s and Jo’s phone numbers, an invitation from Ed and Harry to check out their ghost hunting website (something Dean decided _not_ to do, though he politely pretended to agree), and an invitation from Gilda to join their game nights again.

“Gotta say, you’ve got a great home,” Dean said as he was leaving. He was standing in the foyer with Charlie and Gilda, and somehow, the small space filled with coats and shoes seemed to be more comfortable than his entire apartment. Dean chuckled. “Makes me almost wanna stay and sleep on your couch, instead of going back to my shoe-box of an apartment.”

“Thank you,” Gilda said. She glanced at Charlie and gave a small nod.

“So, did you visit Castiel already?” Charlie asked, with a twinkle in her eye. It took a second for Dean to get it, but then he realized that obviously, this luscious paradise Charlie and Gilda lived in couldn’t be anything else but the product of wishing.

“You wished for this?”

Gilda and Charlie shared a look. It was full of tenderness and satisfaction, and Dean couldn’t help but think that he wanted that sort of peace for himself, too.

“Yeah, we did,” Charlie finally said. “Best wish ever. I haven’t felt the need to go back after that.”

“Yes,” Gilda agreed, “We don’t really need anything else. We have all we want.”

“So that’s what you asked for?” Dean looked at Charlie, recalling how she had declined to tell him what she’d wished for earlier. “A home?”

“We asked for a place where everything grows,” Gilda said. She glanced at Charlie again, and Dean got the feeling that she wasn’t talking about the plants, not exclusively. “It worked better than we thought it would.”

Dean wondered about that when he returned home. He was certain he’d made new friends, and he was looking forward to spending more time with them. And, of course, seeing Charlie and Gilda’s house filled him with wonder – they couldn’t have a more perfect place to themselves. Besides the greenery, the house itself felt warm, inviting, and comfortable, even if the two stories and the basement weren’t that big, and every nook and corner was filled with stuff. A place where everything grew, indeed, including Charlie’s collection of _Star Wars_ toys. So far, everything he’d asked from Castiel had worked out perfectly, and even Charlie and Gilda’s more abstract wish seemed to have played out really well.

Tired but happy, Dean retired to his lumpy mattress, and before he dozed off, he thought that maybe he should ask Castiel for a real house instead of this crummy little apartment.

 

* * *

 

 

The next month passed quickly. Like Dean had hoped, it turned out that he truly was making friends: Ash invited him to hang out at the bar after his shift one evening, and Jo joined them. Dean ran into Victor again in the street, and they stopped to chat for a long while, ending with Dean being invited to dinner with Victor and his wife. Charlie sent him excessive amounts of text messages, forcing Dean to download something called WhatsApp for easier communication, and delighted, Charlie added Dean to the “WFBoardgamers” group discussion. Dean stopped by the bookshop to talk to Anna again, and got her number as well (along with a flirty look, but Dean was determined to keep things platonic, and Anna seemed to understand that). There were other game nights, although not everyone Dean met at the first attended those, and on top of all that, at work, Dean was slowly starting to befriend Bobby, as well. He was as grumpy as ever, and Dean got the feeling that he was accepting Dean’s friendship reluctantly, unable to help it.

It all happened so quickly that Dean’s head was spinning. He hadn’t felt this popular… _ever_ , actually. Even in high school he was the outcast, and he hadn’t had real friends since childhood. All communication stopped with those he considered “friends” when he left Indiana, and although he’d talked a few times with his brother and his parents since moving to White Falls, it hadn’t exactly felt like they truly cared. Obviously, it was harder to care when there were thousands of miles in between you, but it didn’t stop the nagging feeling Dean had every time he called them that he was just annoying them. Getting friends of his own was new and exciting, even if it was a bit pathetic to be experiencing that at the age of twenty-seven, in Dean’s opinion.

When things seemed to be looking up after a month, Dean felt so good that he only belatedly remembered that he didn’t actually accomplish this on his own. On Friday, after work, he went to greet Castiel on his way home. Leaving the Impala, his only pride and joy, on the street grated on his nerves, but he was too eager to go to his apartment building for more secure parking.

Castiel was, of course, sitting between the dumpsters as always. October was starting to get cold, but Castiel seemed somewhat comfortable, safe from the wind this low on the ground and wrapped up in his trench coat. There was no snow on the ground, not yet, but the nights were getting colder with each passing week.

“Hiya, Cas. Still wearing that same coat?” Dean asked as he approached.

Castiel looked up, surprised at being talked to. His fingers tightened around the lapels of the coat.

“Hello,” Castiel said. “Yes, of course. It was a gift from a man who worked in that building.” He gestured at the wall opposite of him, probably meaning one of the companies that filled the office spaces there.

“A gift? What’d he wish for?”

“A better job,” Castiel said. “He was tired of his old one, so he donated his clothes to me. He wanted to become a farmer.”

“Did he?”

Castiel’s lips twisted into a smirk, and Dean realized how foolish his question had been. Of course he did. That was what Castiel did – fulfilled people’s wishes. Sheepishly, Dean scratched the back of his neck.

“So, I came to thank you.”

“Indeed?”

“You are a lifesaver,” Dean said with a huge grin. Hesitantly, Castiel grinned back. “Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever made friends that fast, not even as a kid. You’re packing some real magic there.”

“It was all you,” Castiel said. “I merely made sure you had chances to do so.”

“Well, whatever you did, it works.”

“I’m glad.”

Castiel looked like he meant it, and it was strange how much he seemed to care about Dean’s well-being, despite not even knowing Dean. In fact, Dean realized that he had never even told Castiel his name – Castiel knew important secrets about him, but nothing people usually should know about acquaintances.

“Hey, uh, I don’t think I ever told you my name.” From Castiel’s surprised expression, Dean got that it wasn’t regular for people to introduce themselves to Castiel. Dean ignored that and said, “I’m Dean Winchester. And really, thanks.”

“You’re welcome…Dean.”

Dean felt like he should have asked something in return, because Castiel didn’t seem keen to share any details himself.

“So, um, how long have you been…here?” Dean settled on asking. Sheesh, that was a terrible thing to ask a homeless person, but he couldn’t come up with anything better.

“In here?” Castiel considered this for a moment. “I arrived in White Falls ten years ago.”

“Ten years? Where were you before that?”

“California,” Castiel said. “San Francisco.”

“Huh. My brother goes to college in California. Nicer weather than here.”

“Somewhat,” Castiel said. Dean couldn’t discern from his voice if he meant that or not.

“And, huh, San Francisco. That’s pretty different, compared to this.”

“Yes. But the people aren’t in such a hurry.”

Dean had noticed that as well. People in smaller towns walked slower, like they weren’t in a rush, like life had a different rhythm than in the big cities. He’d grown to find it calming, instead of irritating. Sometimes, he still collided with people on the street as he tried to walk around them, annoyed by their slow pace, but he had noticeably slowed down his steps, too.

“How’d you end up here?”

“I walked,” Castiel said, and Dean laughed, until he realized that Castiel was being literal.

“You wandered…here? Of all places to go?”

“Why not? It’s nice to experience a small town after a huge one.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Dean agreed. There was a silence after that, with Castiel and Dean looking at each other, curious, and somehow, it made Dean uncomfortable. He gave a hollow chuckle. “So, I guess I should ask for my million dollars next.”

Castiel smiled, but it seemed less enthused than before.

“I see. Have you considered buying lottery tickets?”

“On my way after this,” Dean said. “And, you know, I don’t even need a million dollars. Just winning something would be great.”

“What would you use the money for?”

“Booze and hookers.” Castiel’s eyebrows shot up, and Dean laughed. “I’m kidding, man. I’d love to have a real house, but there’s no way I could afford that. I barely have enough to pay rent, at this stage.”

“Where would you buy a house?”

“There’s some land in the edge of the town,” Dean said, thinking of Charlie and Gilda’s place. “Or, I dunno. Haven’t decided yet. I don’t even know if I should stay here. Though, so far, I like it.”

“So you would like a permanent place to stay.”

“Yeah… That’s not so weird, is it? I mean, I haven’t really had a home since childhood. And even that wasn’t much.”

“How so?”

Dean hesitated, but Castiel’s eyes were honest, curious, and there was no judgment in them.

“My parents have a, uh, complicated relationship. My ah, my father took off once in a while, leaving my mom to take care of me and my brother. He drank the money, so she had to work twice as hard to provide for us, and we didn’t—we lost our home in a fire when I was, I don’t even remember. Four? That put my parents in huge debt, and dad’s drinking didn’t get much better after that, but he’d clean up his act once in a while, get a job, and everything would be fine. For a while. And then it’d start again, we’d move, he’d find another job, and so on. He finally stopped drinking when I was in high school, but that was, well. About fifteen years too late.”

Dean shut his mouth, embarrassed that he’d said so much – actually, more than he’d ever told anyone, but for some reason, talking to Castiel felt natural. Safe. Like he’d never judge Dean’s awful childhood and the subsequent trouble he had at forming meaningful relationships.

“You said your brother goes to college,” Castiel said. Dean blinked, not having expected that.

“Yeah. Actually, Stanford University. He got a scholarship, and my parents were able to pay for the rest.”

“But they didn’t pay for your education.”

Dean looked away. “Nah. No money. And it’s not like my grades were great, anyway.”

“Your performance in high school does not equal your success in adulthood,” Castiel said. “Sometimes, people don’t have the chance to get a formal education. Sometimes, they acquire it later. That’s never stopped them from inventing new things, or being influential. All that matters is the passion you have.”

Dean had to arrange his thoughts for a second after that speech. “Wow, that’s…that’s some deep shit, Cas.”

“I’ve lived long enough to see it true,” Castiel quipped.

“Yeah,” Dean muttered.

“Would you use the money for education, as well?”

“Yeah, of course. If I was accepted somewhere.”

“I doubt that will be a problem.” The unwavering trust in his eyes made Dean smile, and once again, he thought how weird it was to have someone have that much faith in him.

“So, hey, how come you live here?” Dean asked. “Couldn’t you, I don’t know, find a place to stay? With your powers, that must be easy.”

“It is of no import,” Castiel said. His expression was closing off, the light in his eyes shutting down again.

“Um. Didn’t mean to pry, I just—”

“It’s fine,” Castiel said, then added, hesitantly, “Dean.”

“Just…” Dean scratched the back of his neck, and suddenly remembered. “Oh! I never thanked you for…Here, you can have this.”

Some of the earlier light returned to Castiel’s eyes when Dean handed him a hundred dollars, but it wasn’t the same levity that was there when he asked about Dean’s childhood. Dean felt awkward, like he’d just paid someone to listen to him whine.

“You could buy a new coat with that,” Dean suggested, and that, at least, made Castiel smile a bit.

“Thank you,” he said, sincerely. Then his expression closed off, and he leaned back, retreating from the world.

“Well, uh, I’m off to buy lottery tickets, then.”

Castiel took Dean completely by surprise when he smirked and said, “I’ll just wait here, then.”

 

* * *

 

 

Just like he had said he would, Dean went and bought lottery tickets. Lots of them. Dozens of them. He didn’t even know how many kinds of lotteries there were, but as he soon learned, there were other options available than Powerball. He didn’t even know the differences between them, but he trusted that with so many tickets, he was bound to win something – at least his money back, if nothing else. Besides, at this point, he trusted Castiel’s powers, and wasn’t concerned that it wouldn’t work. The only question was, within what time frame? Dean had gotten a job two days after making his wish, and he had made friends within a week, but winning a large sum of money might have been a little harder for the universe to fix. He didn’t know how many other people had gone out and wished to win money, as well – maybe their wishes would cancel each other out, and no one got anything? What was the probability of winning a million dollars, anyway? Again, he should’ve asked Castiel about this.

One week passed without incidents, then a second. Then a third. Charlie and Gilda invited him to a Halloween party that turned out to be the nerdiest party Dean had ever attended, complete with almost everyone dressed in D&D or _Lord of the Rings_ inspired outfits, and they argued over the rules of Munchkin well after midnight. With that, October turned into November. Victor and Nancy Henriksen made good on their promise and invited Dean to eat at their place, and they had a nice evening laughing about the stories Victor told about his career as the only permanent officer in town. The meal warmed Dean more that the fact that he didn’t even win ten dollars to pay for another batch of tickets.

During the first weeks, Dean had rigorously checked the tickets at every possible moment, but when nothing happened, he started to forget to do it. Dean fell into the rhythm of work, seeing his new friends, and relaxing at home after work. He finished the book Charlie had recommended him and loaned another sci-fi book with LGBTQ themes – who would’ve thought there were multiple of those? – and learned what corner of his useless stove he needed to hit in order to get it to work.

November was in full swing when one Thursday, Dean remembered to check his tickets again. He’d grown lazy with it, already accepting that maybe asking for money wasn’t the best of wishes, because lots of other people were probably asking for it as well. If Castiel’s powers weren’t unique, there might’ve been other people wishing for the same things as Dean was, making it harder for the universe to grant them all.

He wasn’t expecting anything when he booted up his incredibly old and slow laptop that could barely run the Internet at this point (the latest Flash update drastically dropped his loading speed), and navigated to the site of one of the lotteries. He checked last week’s numbers, then his ticket, and then blinked and checked them again. And again. And again.

It wasn’t the jackpot. But he had four plus one numbers correct, and Dean’s heart started to thrum as he scrolled down the site to check the rules and what he could win with those numbers plus an extra one. He already knew the rules, but he needed to see it with his own eyes to believe it. He stared at the site for a while, but unable to trust the table that informed him how much he’d won, he grabbed his cell and immediately called the number advertised on the website.

It took him a few minutes to get through, and five before the chirpy official he had on the line confirmed what he already knew. It took even more minutes for reality to sink in when the woman said, “Looks like you’ve won two-hundred thousand dollars! Congratulations, sir. That’s a lot of vacations you can go on with that money.”

Dean hung up after stammering a thank you.

Two-hundred thousand dollars.

He won. He actually won a lot of money. It wasn’t the jackpot, it wasn’t the million dollars he’d joked about with Castiel, but it was a considerable sum that he could definitely put to use. There were lots of things he could do with two-hundred thousand dollars, and most of those things he couldn’t even think of at the moment.

For the first time in his life, Dean was _wealthy_. He didn’t have to worry about whether or not he’d have money for the next rent, he could buy fresh ingredients for food instead of that awful, canned stuff, he could furnish his sad little apartment, he could buy a _house_ , and he could even go to college. He couldn’t believe it was something he’s going to do at the age of twenty-seven, but when life gave you bad cards, you dealt with that hand and scrambled to make the next round better.

Dean was a little lost with his metaphors, too happy to think straight. He couldn’t decide where to start, and not knowing what else to fixate on, he realized that he actually had _money_ to buy a comfortable bed, for starters. He could finally get a comfortable _bed_. Good-bye, lumpy mattress he found in a dumpster, and with it, _sayonara_ , nights of tossing and turning because he couldn’t find a position where his back wouldn’t hurt.

Dean laughed, carefree and happy, and the sound of his laughter echoed in the emptiness of the apartment.

 

* * *

 

Of course, the money didn’t magically appear on Dean’s account the very next day, and he still had to go to work as usual, and he couldn’t splurge on everything his heart desired just because he would soon have more than he’d ever had on his account. Still, in a small celebration, Dean bought pie on his way to work, and shared it with Bobby on his lunch break. It was quiet in the shop, and Dean was actually glad for it, because he couldn’t concentrate on anything today. He hummed under his breath the entire time he spent under a boring Corolla, even when he got spurt of oil on his face. Bobby kept giving him weird looks all morning, but Dean couldn’t have cared less.

“What’s put you in such a good mood, boy?” Bobby asked him as they sat in the office, eating. Despite eyeing the pie suspiciously earlier, Bobby was now eating it with gusto. It seemed like the pecan pie was good enough to win over his curiosity about Dean’s oddly bubbly mood.

“Just got some good news, ‘s all,” Dean answered, shoveling more pie into his mouth. Bobby shook his head in disgust, and continued to eat his share slower than Dean.

“Slow down, boy, before you choke on that,” was all Bobby said, and Dean rolled his eyes. He was too happy to care about Bobby’s ribbing, and continued to hum all day as he sloppily worked on the awful Chevrolet that Garth – another friend of Charlie’s whom Dean had met at the Halloween party – had left at the shop, claiming it kept “making banging noises.” Dean couldn’t identify the problem, but perhaps that was because he was too busy imagining what he’d do with all the money.

Dean left at four o’clock sharp, too distracted to work on Garth’s car any longer. He’d figure it out on Monday, he promised himself. He quickly drove home, glancing at the leftovers of the pie on the shotgun seat, and made up his mind when he parked his car. He made a quick stop at the grocery store on his way to the library. As he walked there, he noted that the wind was starting to pick up, and turned his collar up in order to save his neck. He really should buy a scarf.

Castiel was, as he had expected, sitting between the dumpsters. His knees were drawn up to his chest as usual, but he was hugging them perhaps a little tighter than usual, and he’d buttoned up the coat. A blue, worn-out woolen scarf was loosely hanging from his neck, and Dean noted that it was frayed from the ends. Probably another donation from someone who got their wish, or perhaps Castiel had just found it in a dumpster.

“Hiya, Cas,” Dean said.

“Dean,” Castiel said, looking up. It was small, but Dean imagined he heard a note of happiness in there somewhere – like Castiel was glad to see him.

“So, you’re awesome.” Dean grinned, and hesitantly, Castiel gave a small smile back. “I brought something for you.”

He handed Castiel the leftover pie, and the sandwiches, bottles of water, and fruit he got at the grocery store on his way here. He would’ve wanted to get a real meal for Castiel, but because he couldn’t heat it up, there was no point in that. Maybe he should just ask Castiel out for dinner, next time.

Castiel carefully examined what he’d gotten, but his hands stopped to brush the pie box the most. His eyes seemed huge when he looked up.

“You brought me pie?”

“The least I could do. It’s pecan, too!”

Castiel opened the box with slow movements, and sniffed it just as carefully. For one, odd moment, Dean thought that Castiel had never had pie before, but that was just impossible, and the happy smile Castiel gave him made Dean’s focus shift, and the flutter in his stomach gave way to a kind of confusion he hadn’t felt around Castiel before. It had been clear to Dean from the start that under all the dirt and ill-fitting clothes, Castiel was actually very handsome, but it hadn’t truly hit Dean just _how_ mesmerizing he was. When Castiel smiled, the effect of that only intensified. He brightened up the very alley they were in, just with that small smile.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, and Dean ducked his head to hide his momentary confusion.

“Really, I should be the one to thank you.”

Castiel quirked an eyebrow. “I take it your wish came true.”

“I won two-hundred thousand dollars,” Dean said. He couldn’t stop the happy chuckle that came along with it. “Two-hundred thousand! Seriously, that’s more money than what’s ever passed my hands, my entire life.”

“So, are you planning to spend it all on booze and hookers?” Castiel asked, and Dean snorted when he saw the smirk on his face.

“Wow, was that a joke?”

“Maybe.”

“Another joke. You’re growing a sense of humor.”

“Maybe you just never noticed what I had all along.”

Dean barked a laugh, surprised. He’d found talking with Castiel easy from the start, but this kind of banter was new for them. He found that he liked it.

Dean waited as Castiel unwrapped the first sandwich and slowly started to chew on it, as if to savor the taste. It was a plain turkey sandwich, and Dean made a mental note of bringing something with more taste next time. Judging by Castiel’s content chewing, it was well received, nonetheless.

“So, hey, what’s the weirdest thing anyone’s ever wished for? Or do you have a client confidentiality?”

“No, I don’t have a client…confidentiality,” Castiel said, wiping crumbs off of his lips. Dean stared until he realized that, and forced his eyes upwards, to look into Castiel’s eyes instead. “I’m afraid I can’t remember all individual wishes, though.”

“Just something, then. C’mon, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve been asked to do?”

Castiel chewed on the sandwich, thoughtful. “I’m not sure what would count as ‘weird’ to you. I’ve been asked for things in the past that would not be weird in today’s context.”

“Like?”

“Someone seen as a man wanted to be seen as the woman that she was.”

“Um. Yeah, okay, not weird, just…Wait, could you grant that?”

“No,” Castiel said, sadly. “There was no medicine he – she – could’ve taken at that time. No treatment she could’ve received. All I could do was to make sure she lived around people who accepted her as she was.”

“Hey, that’s—that’s more than most people can hope for.”

“I suppose,” Castiel said, still forlorn.

Trying to salvage the mood, Dean continued, “But, um, no one’s ever asked you to, I don’t know, turn them into a rabbit?”

Castiel cracked a smile at that. “You know that I can’t do that. I’m not a witch.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I explain the rules of magic to anyone who cares to listen.”

“Okay, fine, what about people wanting to totally change their lives? Like, maybe they were a sea captain and wanted to become a florist?”

“I’m in no place to judge,” Castiel said. “If it’s possible to grant, I will grant it. People’s dreams and desires are very varied. I’ve learned not to question them.” Then he continued, “But perhaps the most memorable wish…A member of the royal family once asked me to help fake her death.”

“Royal family?” Dean repeated. What the hell, had Castiel traveled outside of the US? Had he been the court magician at some point? Did courts even keep that kind of entertainment anymore? And if so, why on earth was he sitting on the streets in Smalltown, America and not enjoying the benefits of being BFFs with the Queen of England? “Wait, which royal family? Or are you allowed to tell?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel said, which Dean took to mean that he wasn’t allowed to tell. “She wanted to escape an arranged marriage, and live a normal life with the man she loved.”

“So she faked her death? Man, that’s hardcore.”

“It worked, far better than I expected, actually. Her family never found out, even if she lived in a nearby town.”

“Man, you could write a book about that,” Dean laughed.

“I couldn’t. I promised her I wouldn’t spread the details of her escape.”

“It’s just a—never mind.” He thought of something then, and asked, “Hey, what would you wish for?”

He realized his mistake as soon as he saw the blankness spread on Castiel’s face. “I just meant—shit, I didn’t mean to imply that you couldn’t—”

“It’s fine,” Castiel cut him off, mercifully. “And my wishes are irrelevant.”

“Oh.” That was a dismissal if Dean had ever heard one. He didn’t dare to push his luck, so instead, he said, “So, uh, crazy weather lately, huh?”

Castiel’s blank look told him that it wasn’t as subtle change of topic as he’d hoped. “November nights tend to be colder than October nights, yes.”

“You ever get cold?”

“Sometimes.” Castiel gave a little shrug. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. There are worse places I’ve stayed at.”

That sounded like a depressing topic, and Dean didn’t really want to pry. Besides, Castiel’s snappy answers were hinting that Dean had already pushed the limits of their…relationship, acquaintance, whatever they were, enough, and that he should just leave.

“So, uh, ready for my next wish?”

There was something strained about Castiel’s expression, but his voice was neutral when he said, “Of course.”

“I wish you have a good week,” Dean said.

Castiel stared at him for so long, speechless, that Dean started to feel awkward. Finally, Castiel said, in a small voice, “Thank you, Dean. Truly.”

Dean got the sense that most people didn’t wish things for Castiel – and, again, why would they, if he could just wish things himself – but he didn’t care if it was odd. He wanted to thank Castiel, and this was the most direct way to do so.

“No problem,” Dean said. He wanted to say something more, but he couldn’t figure out what, and looking into Castiel’s sky-blue eyes was making him feel kind of weird, so he turned to leave. “See you around, Cas.”

“See you,” Castiel said, and added, just as hesitantly as last time, “Dean.”

Dean awkwardly waved at him, before stumbling up the steps. He willed his heart to slow down.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean was informed that it would take two weeks to confirm that he was actually the winner before the money would be transferred to his account, but at least Dean had the confirmation that he definitely would get the money. When he got the message, he was excited that he finally, _finally_ , could look into his options, and think about what he actually wanted to do with his life.

Charlie noticed his good mood when Dean popped into the coffee shop and left a huge tip, but she didn’t ask him any details – she had already figured out that Dean had been using Castiel’s wish machine. Dean went out with Jo and Ash one evening, although he regretfully told them he needed to cut the night short. Ash and Jo were unimpressed when he said that he had work next morning, and Jo actually laughed when he said, “At least one of us has to be a mature adult, Harvelle.” He still wasn’t sure what Jo did for a living, but he was certain that besides bartending, Ash did something related to coding that was legal, and something that was very illegal on the side. He resolved to not ask any questions.

The auto shop was moderately quiet that week, but on Friday, when it was quieter than usual, Dean gave himself a pass and used the company laptop to surf for potential schools. Bobby’s laptop was old, but it actually ran better than Dean’s, so Dean preferred to use it, whenever he had the chance. Bobby (grudgingly) used the laptop for bookkeeping, although he still grumbled about preferring pen and paper, since they “didn’t stop working when the power fails.” Dean hadn’t pointed out that if and when the power failed, Bobby probably had more important matters in the shop than doing the finances right then and there.

Dean first looked into nursing schools, checking what were his choices around his new hometown, and then started to muse if he needed to attend a few pre-college courses. He hadn’t been in school in almost ten years, and even if he’d always landed on his feet, college was different – he had never been that good at staying still and applying himself. He didn’t know _how_ to study, because he had always glided through his classes with minimum effort, and he did fine, but he never did great.

Dean was deep in thought and didn’t hear Bobby approaching until the man was leaning over his shoulder.

“Are you thinking of going to college?”

“Fuck!” Dean almost pushed the laptop off of the table. “You scared me, old man!”

“Who’re you calling old?” Bobby slumped down in the other office chair (it creaked even worse than the one Dean was sitting on), and rolled the chair closer to the table. “Nursing school?”

“So?” Dean flushed, and annoyed, started to close the tabs.

“Nothin’ wrong with that. I’m not attacking you, boy.”

“Well, you’d be the first, then,” Dean said, although it wasn’t true. Castiel didn’t make fun of him when he heard what Dean wanted to study. His parents might, and Sam might, though. The words, “But it’s not like you ever showed interest in going to college, Dean, so why are you angry that I’m going? You don’t even like studying!” still burned his mind whenever he happened to think about that unfortunate discussion, shadowing the joy his parents and Sam had felt when Sam had been accepted in Stanford. But apart from them, he was pretty sure Charlie and Gilda, and Ash and Jo, and everyone else he’d befriended so far wouldn’t treat him any differently. They might even think it was a good decision.

It was an odd feeling, to have support.

Bobby leaned closer to the laptop and forced Dean’s hand away from the touch pad, making Dean stop closing the tabs. The site informing him where he could get a nursing degree stayed open, neatly displaying one college after another. Dean felt his ears burn.

“You actually lookin’ at colleges?” Bobby asked.

“Yeah.” Dean hadn’t planned on telling Bobby so soon, but he might as well, now. “I’m thinking of going back to school. Gotta take some preliminary classes for that, or something… Dunno if I’d get in, otherwise.”

“Huh.” Bobby scratched his head. “Good for you. Let me know if you need less hours for that.”

Dean had thought that Bobby might react favorably to his plans, but he hadn’t actually expected this much support. He looked at Bobby, surprised.

He smiled slightly. “Thank you.”

“Shut up, boy. It’s a waste of your brain to stay here the rest of your life, anyway. Don’t give me that look, we both know it.”

“It’s not a waste of my brain to work on cars.”

“No, but it’s not what ya wanna do for the rest of you life, is it?”

Dean had to admit that, and Bobby gave him a wry smile for that.

“Why didn’t ya go, before?”

Dean looked away. “Didn’t have the money. My parents could only pay for one kid to attend college, and it wasn’t me.”

“So what changed? Did you—oh. You’ve got the money now.”

“Yeah.”

“Used our local magician for that, didn’t you?”

“Yup,” Dean said. He saw no point in denying that. “Why, you got something to say about that?”

“Nothin’ at all,” Bobby grouched, standing up, very slowly. “Would be pretty hypocritical of me if I did.”

“You’ve visited him, too?”

Bobby didn’t answer. There was stiffness in the way he was trying to right his back Dean hadn’t seen before, and they locked gazes when they both realized that.

Dean didn’t know what to make of this, not exactly. He had witnessed how Bobby clearly had problems with his legs, and sometimes he moved with caution and cursed when he needed to pick things up, but Dean had never thought it was anything worse than natural aging. Somehow, the look Bobby gave him made Dean think it wasn’t that simple.

“Bad knees?” Dean asked.

“Somethin’ like that,” Bobby said. Then he sighed. “‘S not a secret, though. You might as well know. I was wheelchair-bound once, actually.”

“Huh?” Bobby didn’t meet his eyes, so Dean pushed forward. “What happened?”

“Got into an accident. Drunk driver ran me over.”

“Fuck.”

“It happens,” Bobby shrugged. “I was goddamn angry about that, of course, but he got his license revoked and a few years in prison, so I think he paid for it as well.”

“But you were in a wheelchair.”

“Yeah. Couldn’t walk, both legs crushed. The doctors said I had little hope of ever walking again, with that much damage.”

Dean could already guess where the story was going.

“I never believed in any of that mumbo-jumbo that some homeless man could fulfill your wishes. Figured that was drunk talk, stupid gossip. But when you’ve got nothin’ to lose, you scrape that bottom of the barrel until you can see through it.”

“Poetic.”

“Shut up, boy, I’m trying to tell a dramatic tale, here.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“Well. I went to see that…dunno even what to call him. Witch.”

“Genie?” Dean grinned.

“He ain’t in a bottle, though,” Bobby said, grinning back. “Anyway. I wanted to walk again, so he did his thing, whatever that is, and suddenly, the doctors had hope for me again. I’m not saying it happened overnight, and the physical therapy was anythin’ but fun, but it got me to walk again.”

“You recovered well,” Dean said.

“Prosthetic knees, prosthetic left leg, and right leg parsed together with so much metal that I can never go near an airport again. But the magic worked, and miraculously, my insurance even paid for the surgery, so I didn’t go fully bankrupt.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Bobby grunted.

They stayed silent for a while, and Dean thought over all the times he had seen Bobby curse as he bent down to pick something. To go from being unable to walk at all back to working…That seemed like a huge deal. Castiel’s powers truly were a wonder.

That made Dean think of something. He thought of Castiel, sitting between those dumpsters with paint that was peeling off, in November wind, and he frowned.

“What’d you give him in return?”

Bobby’s eyes widened. “Huh?”

“I mean, did he ask for anything? Like, your soul?” Dean asked, trying to make light of it.

“Pretty sure I’d have noticed if I’d signed away my soul,” Bobby grunted. “No, he didn’t ask for anything.”

“So…did you give him something in return?”

“Uh.” Bobby stopped to consider this, and then said, “Well, I went back there a few times after my physical therapy started to have an effect. I fed him a few times. And gave him a sleeping bag.”

Even with context, it sounded absurd. Dean took a few seconds to form a reply.

“He gave you back your ability to walk, and you gave him a sleeping bag in return?”

“Well…” Bobby furrowed his eyebrows. “Ya know, I never even thought about that. He didn’t ask for nothin’, and I thought, if he can make anything come true, there’s gotta be a reason he ain’t using that power on himself. So I didn’t ask.”

Dean blinked. “You know, I didn’t ask, either. I just…assumed he didn’t need anything.”

“Damn. I don’t think anybody’s ever asked him.”

Dean felt like his eyes had been opened. He had never thought he could be that selfish, that anyone could be that selfish, but apparently, they all were. Castiel asked for nothing in return, so no one gave him anything. After they got their wish, everyone forgot about the one who granted it. As if it was okay for one person to live in isolation and poverty, as long as everyone else was getting something out of it.

Dean felt ashamed. The worst thing was: he had done the same. He had asked for a job, he had asked for friends, he had asked for money, and as soon as he had gotten his wishes, his reaction hadn’t been to thank Castiel, but to ask for more. And even if he did thank Castiel, what good did it do for Castiel? Absolutely nothing. He lived on the streets, in clothes that someone gave him because they didn’t want them anymore, slept in a bag that Bobby gave him in return for being able to walk again, and ate sandwiches and pie that people like Dean gave him in return for two-hundred thousand dollars.

Even with Dean’s admittedly bad arithmetic, that didn’t seem like a fair trade.

Dean thought of Castiel, sitting between the dumpsters that were never emptied, and suddenly, he was filled with shame. The early November temperature wasn’t freezing, not yet, but it was exactly at 32 Fahrenheit, and the wind made the air bite into your skin. Last weekend, it had snowed for the first time, and there was a touch of snow on the ground, just enough to make everything white, but not enough to cover every leaf and rock. In his mind, Dean saw Castiel, tucked in between the dumpsters, curled in with a sleeping bag and that useless worn-out scarf as snow continued to fall. He didn’t know how Castiel spent his nights when it got this cold, or if he had eaten today at all. Worse still, no one else seemed to know or care, either. The whole town had accepted that Castiel the homeless person lived by the dumpsters, that Castiel the genie fulfilled their wishes, and expected nothing in return.

He was putting on his coat and walking out the shop before he even realized that he had made the decision.

“Hey, where’re you going?” Bobby shouted after him.

“Taking the rest of the day off!” Dean yelled back. “Sorry! Something important came up!”

“Whatever,” Bobby grouched. “Fine, go on, you’ve worked hard enough to earn a few hours.”

“Thanks,” Dean yelled over his shoulder. He made a mental note to make this up to Bobby later – he’s been a great boss so far, and Dean didn’t want to use his kindness against him. He’d done that to other people enough.

It didn’t strike him how oddly he was acting until he was parking his car in front of the library. He hated doing that, because the parking meter ate way too many coins for such a short time, but he was too distraught to drive home, leave his car there, and walk to the library. He sat in the car for a moment, thinking that he must’ve lost the last shreds of his sanity, but…he was already here. Might as well go through with it.

As he stepped out of the car, the wind bit into his nose, harshly, and Dean realized that he had made the right decision. No one should be spending their nights outside in this weather. No one should be left that alone, period. It was a different thing if Castiel didn’t want his help, or if he didn’t want to go to a homeless shelter, but the very least Dean could do was _ask_ if he could help. Because he could: compared to what Castiel had, Dean lived comfortably, even with a leaking tap and walls that seemed to crumble under the weight of the building. At least he had a roof over his head and regular meals.

Dean realized that he was relieved when he saw Castiel sit in the same place as always, in the same position as always. Something tugged violently at his heart when he saw snowflakes clinging to Castiel’s dark hair, and how they had turned the blue scarf into a mix of silver and blue spots. He must’ve been sitting here for a long, long time, unmoving, cut off from the world.

Maybe he didn’t want to be involved. Maybe Dean was wasting his time and this was all for nothing. Still, Dean stepped closer and said, “Hey, Cas.”

“Dean,” Castiel said. The snowflakes on his head fell off as he lifted his head. Dean felt a pang of regret as he saw how pale Castiel’s normally tan skin had become in the cold.

“I, uh.”

“What do you wish for, this time?” Castiel asked, when Dean couldn’t think of how to say what he wanted to say.

“Can, can I wish for something that’s not for me?”

“Of course. But the usual limits apply.”

“Right,” Dean said, “Free will and all that.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay. You can say no, you know, but I wish to know about you,” Dean said. “How did you end up here?”

He had noticed it before, how Castiel’s eyes were incredibly expressive while his face remained impassive, but now it was impossible to miss the way Castiel’s eyes clouded up. He seemed like he was on the verge of crying, and Dean almost took his request back. He didn’t want to harass Castiel; he was only curious.

“I—”

“If you wanna tell me, I mean,” Dean rushed to add.

“I want to, I just—” Castiel snapped his mouth shut, seemingly struggling with something. “The—the magic, it’s—”

It dawned on Dean in a flash.

“You’re cursed,” he said, surprised. He had thought Castiel’s magical powers were just that, magic, but…

Castiel looked at him, a plea in his eyes, and Dean realized that he couldn’t say it until Dean did. He didn’t know how he knew that, but it seemed to line up with those arbitrary rules of magic Castiel had told him about.

“You’re cursed,” Dean repeated, with more conviction. Castiel nodded.

“I’m cursed,” he said, and suddenly, it seemed like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He straightened up, and repeated, “I’m cursed.”

“Oh,” was all Dean could say. He didn’t know what he had been expecting.

Castiel let out a sigh, but his face had cleared up. He suddenly looked more alive than he had looked ever before.

“It feels—I haven’t been able to say that out loud in centuries.”

“ _Centuries_?” Dean blinked, not knowing what to ask first, and then settled on saying, “Wait, how old are you?”

“I don’t recall, exactly,” Castiel said. He was visibly much more relaxed, more eager to talk, now that he could. “It’s been centuries since my birth, at least. I once looked at history books in the library, trying to place the years. From my research, it seems likely that I was born somewhere between 1200 and 1250.”

“You’re—Holy shit, you’re eight-hundred years old?”

“More or less.”

“Where do you come from?”

“It does not matter,” Castiel said.

“Why not? You’re not from here, right?”

“No,” Castiel said. “You would call the area Europe in today’s terms, perhaps. But as I said, it doesn’t matter. Even if I found a map I recognized, the lines have been redrawn, erased, and added so many times that my home doesn’t exist anymore. Entire continents have been rearranged. What I once called home only exists in my mind.”

That was the saddest thing Dean had ever heard. He coughed.

“What about your home…village? Town?”

“It’s been destroyed long ago. The plague weakened it enough, and the wars that came after made sure that nothing remained. And my people no longer exist, either. Nor my language.”

“What do you mean?”

Castiel smiled, sadly. “It’s been assimilated to other languages around it. No one speaks the original tongue that I do, anymore.”

“Holy shit.”

“Indeed.”

Dean couldn’t help but chuckle at that, and Castiel grinned at him, much more relaxed than before.

“Can I now ask why you were…cursed?”

“You can,” Castiel assured him. He paused for a moment, and Dean watched as tiny snowflakes danced around his pink ears. He didn’t know why he was so fixated on that sight, or the tiny curl of hair behind Castiel’s ear. “Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a young prince lived in a shining castle.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“I believe it’s called self-deprecation,” Castiel answered dryly. “I suppose it didn’t come through yet.”

“Sorry. Continue.”

Castiel paused to think for a long time, so Dean prompted, “So, uh, is that why were you cursed? For being a prince?”

“Not exactly.” Castiel sighed and started again, “I was born into vast fortunes and great status. While my bloodline was not royal, we were esteemed enough to control the town and the lands beyond it. It helped that we had control of the church, as well. It’s unbelievable what money and shamelessness can get you.”

Dean didn’t know nearly enough about medieval European church politics to understand Castiel’s insinuations, so he didn’t ask.

“I lived in great comfort with my family, and spent my life as my siblings did: without a thought of the life outside of my most immediate bearings. But one night, a witch came into our town.”

“Witches are real? I thought you said you weren’t one!”

“I am not, and that’s what you take away from this story?”

“Sorry. Continue.”

“Any stranger could request a place to stay in the abbey nearby,” Castiel said, “but for reasons we couldn’t understand, she didn’t.”

“Uh, yeah, if she was a witch—”

“Yes, I understand that _now_ , Dean.”

“Hey, you’ve had eight hundred years to think about that.”

Castiel glared at him, but the look held no real malice. “She came to our door, asking for a place to stay.”

“This is starting to be eerily familiar. So you turned her away and she turned you into a hideous beast?”

“No, of course not,” Castiel said, looking affronted. “At least I hope she didn’t. As custom stated, we gave her a place to stay.”

“Oh.”

“But,” Castiel shifted, “we never offered her the full comforts everyone in the house had. No warm fire by her bedside. Not enough hay in her bed. Just enough food to keep her alive. We gave her the barest minimum, while the fire roared in our bedchambers, while we slept wrapped in warm pelts, and ate feasts fit for a king.

“She stayed with us for three days. While there, she observed what my siblings and I did during our days. She saw how little we gave her. She saw how we sent the servants to sleep in the freezing basement. She saw how we – how _I_ – turned people away from our door, because we had given them food _once_ before that season.

“After three days, she got ready to leave. My siblings didn’t want to send her off, so I took up the task. As was her right, she expected to have some food for her journey. She had been a good guest, entertaining us with her stories and bringing news, and despite our rudeness, she was willing to let that go and be on her way.

“But when I refused to give her food for her journey, saying that we needed that for ourselves, for the winter, she had enough.”

“So she cursed you.”

Castiel huffed. “Yes. For being spoiled, selfish, and unkind.”

“You— _you_ were cursed for being unkind?”

“You’ve listened to my story, Dean. You know I was not kind to her.”

A silence fell over them. It had started to snow again, and the snowflakes clinging to Castiel’s hair and shoulders looked much bigger than before. Dean averted his gaze.

“You’re cursed to fulfill people’s wishes,” Dean realized.

“To give them everything they ask for, if it’s in my power to grant,” Castiel said. “To never age and wilt. To live from the kindness of strangers.”

“You can’t ask anything for yourself?” Dean asked.

“No,” Castiel confirmed. There were shadows lurking behind his steady gaze, and ashamed, Dean realized his earlier suspicions had been correct. He had just been too selfish to try and confirm them. Just like Bobby – just like everyone else – he had assumed that if Castiel had magical powers, there was no reason he couldn’t use those powers on himself, and therefore, there had to be another reason why he still lived on the streets.

Castiel had lived for eight hundred years, most of it alone, with no means to change his situation. Dean couldn’t comprehend what that must’ve done to his psyche, how that must’ve felt like, watching centuries pass him by, unable to fully experience anything, except through others using his powers.

Somewhat desperately, Dean asked, “If it’s a curse, it can be broken, right?”

“I assume.”

“You assume?”

Castiel huffed. “The witch who cursed me has long since passed. I hoped the curse would die with her, but alas, her magic was more powerful than the thread of her life.”

“You ever tried to break it? Or can you even break it?”

Castiel gave him a tight smile, and Dean was starting to understand that he wore that expression every time he couldn’t say something. It must’ve been the curse that was forcing him to stay quiet – just like he couldn’t tell Dean he was cursed, he couldn’t tell him how to break the curse, or what he had done to try and break it.

“Okay,” Dean said, “I get it. If you were cursed to live from the kindness of strangers, then breaking the curse must have something to do with that, too, right?”

Castiel didn’t say anything, and Dean couldn’t read his expression. Maybe he didn’t know how to break the curse, either. Maybe he had given up. It certainly seemed like it. Castiel was, once again, sitting back and wearing that shut-off look, like he was preparing to hibernate and hide from the world again.

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel said. “Thank you for listening.”

“Hey, wait,” Dean said, and when he saw that Castiel was paying attention, he continued.

“Cas. Castiel,” Dean corrected himself, not feeling like he had the right to use that nickname, not just yet.

Castiel lifted his eyes back to Dean, and suddenly, Dean had no idea what he’d been about to say.

“Uh,” Dean finally coughed, “I was gonna say… You think you’re gonna be okay with this?”

Castiel regarded him silently. “You don’t need to be worried.”

“Well, it’s just…”

“Dean, you can still ask me for more wishes.”

“Wh—what?” Dean didn’t understand how they’d ended up back to the wishes. “More?”

“Of course. I told you, there’s no limit.”

“That’s not what I…I don’t want any more fucking wishes!” Dean snapped. Castiel looked shocked, and even Dean was surprised at his own outburst.

“Fuck, no, that’s not what I meant! What I meant to say was, I haven’t actually shown it, but I’m really grateful what you’ve done, and…fuck, I’m sorry you haven’t gotten anything in return. And you know, uh,” Dean scratched the back of his neck, and then forced himself to continue, “It wasn’t just the magic that helped, you know. I actually like talking to you. It’s easy.”

Castiel stared at him.

“I’d really like it if, if you’d consider, uh, coming home with me. I mean, I still live in a crappy shoe-box of an apartment, and I don’t have a guest bedroom, but my couch has to be better to sleep on than…this.”

Castiel still didn’t say anything; just stared at him with those round, blue eyes, with such unwavering attention that somehow, Dean felt like he was fourteen again and asking a girl out for the first time.

“I just meant—I don’t care about the wishes anymore. I actually like talking to you, and I know I’ve been shit at showing it, but I really would like it if, uh, you’d give me a chance to make up for it. Coming home with me could be a start. As a friend,” Dean added, because he really didn’t want to make this any weirder than it was. Besides, he’d read one too many articles about homeless people who were coerced into sex in exchange for a place to stay, and he really didn’t want Cas to feel like that. He didn’t want to think about what Castiel must’ve done in order to survive over the centuries.

“A friend?” Castiel asked. “You want…you want us to be friends?”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered.

Castiel looked at him like he didn’t believe Dean, and sadly, Dean said, “I mean it. I actually like you. And it’s okay if you don’t wanna stay for more than one night, but, I’d…I’d like it if you stayed.”

Castiel stared at him, and Dean had no choice but to look back. It felt like it lasted forever, before Castiel finally nodded.

“I accept.”

“You’ll come home with me?” Dean asked, unable to stop the smile spreading on his face. He didn’t know why he felt so elated about this, except that he was.

Castiel gave a small smile. “Yes.”


	3. Chapter 3

Living with Castiel turned out to be both easy and frustrating. In a very short time, it became clear that Castiel had no frame of reference for some of the things in Dean’s apartment, even as bare as it was, and that made Dean wonder just how long Castiel had lived on the streets. Despite being _so old_ (“It wasn’t funny the first fifty times, Dean,” Castiel commented at the end of the first week, dryly), he had no idea how to use most of the twenty-first century equipment. When was the last time he was invited to stay somewhere, if he barely recognized a laptop? Or worse, when he didn’t know how to operate a shower, or that he needed to brush his teeth?

But on the other hand, Castiel fit into the apartment like he’d always been there. He filled the space just by being himself, and Dean found that he enjoyed that. He liked Castiel’s quiet chatter when they sat at the table and ate breakfast, and he enjoyed the way Castiel listened to Dean ramble on and on about things that Castiel clearly didn’t know or care about. For the first couple of days, Castiel was quiet, only commenting on things Dean prompted him about, but as he relaxed, he started to talk a lot more. Soon enough, he was chatting nonstop about things that interested him, and Dean found himself secretly smiling at the way he got excited about the smallest things. He liked seeing Castiel’s eyes light up when he saw something he thought had been long gone from the world, like the time he realized that people still read Shakespeare’s plays.

Dean didn’t have many books in his apartment, but among the few he had was _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_. He hadn’t ever read it, not completely, but he cherished the book, because it was a gift from his first girlfriend. (Sometimes he still wondered what would’ve happened if his family had stayed in New York, if he had attended the same school as Robin for a little bit longer, if he had gone to high school there.)

“History is amazing, isn’t it?” Castiel muttered as he browsed the book, turning each page carefully, as if he was handling something easily breakable.

“How so?” Dean asked. He’d made a comfortable nest on the couch again, and was content with staying there, lazily watching Castiel move around in the apartment. Dean had finally invested in a TV, since he now knew he could afford it, but it was playing some reality TV show on mute. Watching Cas was much more interesting.

“What survives through the ages and what doesn’t,” Castiel said, and it took Dean a second to remember what they had been talking about. “I knew he was popular during his time, but…I confess, I didn’t believe his works would survive so many centuries. Endure so many wars. So many famines, catastrophes, fires.”

“You’ve read Shakespeare before?” Dean asked. “Or, uh, seen his plays? I guess books weren’t as easily available back then.”

“No,” Castiel said, “they weren’t.” He closed the book, and caressed the spine. “How much did this cost?”

“Uh. I dunno, it was a gift. Maybe twenty bucks? Thirty?”

“Books of this size used to cost as much as your entire apartment,” Castiel said. He didn’t mean to, of course, but that made Dean feel small, somehow. “I’m glad more people can afford them, now.”

Dean smiled at that. “Yeah. And most of the world has read a few Shakespeare stories, or at least heard of him, you know. That’s one hell of a contribution.”

“I’m happy to know that. He deserves that. After all those sacrifices he made, it would’ve been painful to see his works forgotten.”

Dean sat up, and took a closer look at the small smile Cas was wearing. “Wait a minute. Did you _know_ Shakespeare?”

“I have met him, yes,” Castiel said. He put the book back in the shelf, and gave Dean a mischievous smile. It was unfair how good it looked on him – Dean really liked seeing Castiel loosen up.

“Wait. No, no, hold up. Did you help Shakespeare to write?”

“Something like that.”

“Shit, did you help Marlowe help Shakespeare to write? Or make Marlowe into Shakespeare? Or make Shakespeare into Shakespeare?”

“Yes,” Cas said with a grin. Dean wasn’t even mad about the non-answer, because he was mesmerized by that smile. “I’m sorry, Dean, but I promised the bard to take his secrets to the grave.”

“You ass. With that excuse, you could tell me you’ve met the Pope, and I’d believe that.”

“Actually—”

“Shut up,” Dean said, but he grinned, and Castiel grinned back.

Castiel’s quiet, unassuming sense of humor, that Dean had sensed bubbling under the surface on the streets, became much more notable the more Cas relaxed. Castiel could switch from being deadly serious to deadpan sarcasm in seconds, and sometimes it took Dean a moment to catch up. Cas seemed to enjoy keeping Dean on his toes, and strangely, Dean liked it, too.

Castiel also shamelessly exploited the fact that Dean couldn’t always distinguish between his serious moments and joking moments. Like the time Castiel’s stomach rumbled loudly while they were watching TV, and he gave Dean the most withering look he could manage. By the time Dean was standing by the counter, making a late-night snack for Cas, he knew he had been excellently manipulated, but he couldn’t say that he minded very much.

“If you’re immortal, why do you need to eat?” Dean grumbled as he gave Castiel the sandwich. Castiel was leaning on the counter, on Dean’s right, and he looked like he belonged there. Dean didn’t know how to feel about that.

“I’m not immortal. I just can’t die,” Castiel corrected.

“How does that work? Your cells just keep endlessly replicating?”

Castiel blinked, and Dean was about to explain to Cas what cells were and why they were replicating, but Castiel surprised him once again.

“I assume so. But I will not let any doctor near my body to test that theory, or use me as the recipe to stop apoptosis.”

“Why not? Humanity’s been looking for immortality for…forever.”

“I wouldn’t recommend immortality to anyone.”

“How do you mean?”

“Yes, it’s true that I won’t age, and I can’t injure myself. Every injury I’ve ever had healed up faster than it took time for it to form.”

“You become more unbelievable every time I ask you something,” Dean muttered. “But isn’t that a good thing? You could get into a car accident and walk away unscathed!”

“I could,” Castiel agreed, “but I get hungry,” Cas continued, and Dean could hear the pain in the statement. Cas had probably gone hungry several times in his long life. “I get tired. I get cold, I get hot, I get uncomfortable. I need sleep, and I need food.” He huffed, a little amused for some reason. “I suppose I could technically die, if I endured the pain and stopped eating completely. Or if I got beheaded.”

“Not funny,” Dean said. “But I get your point. No fun in being immortal.”

“It’s not all bad,” Castiel mused, taking a bite out of the sandwich. “I’ve had time to learn things I otherwise wouldn’t have. I once spent two decades studying music.”

“You can play?”

“Sing,” Castiel corrected. “It’s a good thing I had a decade or two to spare. I wouldn’t have learned otherwise.”

Dean laughed. “And I bet you’ve met some interesting people.”

“Yes, of course,” Cas said. “But no one ever stays,” he added, glancing elsewhere. Dean’s heart twisted violently at that.

Dean let Castiel get acquainted with the apartment, let him get settled, but when Thanksgiving was around the corner, Dean figured that Cas would probably benefit from talking to someone other than plain old Dean, all the time. He had wiggled out of Charlie and company’s board game night last time, because the thrill of having Castiel stay at his apartment hadn’t yet worn off, and they had spent a nice evening discussing everything Castiel found odd about the twenty-first century (there weren’t many things on that list – you couldn’t live for eight-hundred years without learning a lot about humanity and becoming closely acquainted with their ingenuity). Now, though, Dean thought that it might be good for his friends to meet Cas, and for Cas to meet them.

Charlie was surprised when Dean asked if Castiel could tag along to their board game night on Saturday, but she gracefully accepted. Dean couldn’t tell what Castiel thought of this, because he followed Dean without complaint, though he neither said that he wanted to go nor that he didn’t.

“You’ll like Charlie,” Dean assured him as they were driving to Charlie and Gilda’s place. “She’s a bit weird, but so’s everyone else there. You’ll fit right in,” he teased. Cas didn’t crack a smile, but Dean felt him relax slightly in his seat.

“I’m excited to see her place,” Castiel commented, quietly, and Dean suddenly realized how weird this would be. Castiel was the one who had provided Charlie and Gilda their home, and he had never even seen it.

Dean was a bit anxious when he pulled into Charlie and Gilda’s driveway, but his worries disappeared when he saw how delighted Castiel was. He didn’t seem angry that he hadn’t gotten to enjoy the benefits of the magic – instead, he seemed happy to see that Charlie and Gilda were living comfortably.

“Their garden is amazing, even if it doesn’t look like it now,” Dean said as they stepped out of the car. November had truly brought winter with it, and the whole yard was covered in white powder snow. Dean thought that it glittered brighter than the rest of the town. Perhaps that was another perk of the magic surrounding the place. “And wait ‘till you see the greenhouse!”

“I know. I can see the potential,” Castiel said, confusingly, but he seemed to be looking at something beyond the physical realm. Maybe he really saw the world differently; Dean had never asked.

Charlie stepped onto the porch to greet them. She had wrapped a thick woolen blanket tightly around herself, and was wearing fuzzy pink bunny slippers. Dean openly laughed at her attire.

“Shouldn’t you be able to stand the cold, seeing as you’ve lived here your whole life?” Dean teased her.

“Shush,” Charlie said. “It’s unnatural that you _can_. You’re the one who’s supposed to be shivering, California boy!”

“I only lived there for one summer. After that, I was in Indiana,” Dean reminded her.

“Still, warmer climate than here,” Charlie muttered. “Unnatural.”

Castiel stood behind Dean as this conversation went on, silent. Dean got the feeling that he was a bit uncomfortable, or didn’t know what to say, so Dean took charge of the introductions.

“Charlie, meet Cas. Cas, this is Charlie.”

“We’ve met,” Castiel said, and then seemed to realize that it wasn’t the best thing to say. Charlie stared at him for a second, gears clearly turning in her head, and then she broke into a grin.

“We have,” she said. “Sorry for not inviting you to see the fruits of your labor earlier. Thank you, really.”

Castiel ducked his head, embarrassed, but Charlie either ignored this or didn’t notice. She stuck her hand out, and after hesitating for a moment, Castiel took it, and they slowly shook hands.

“Come in, both of you,” Charlie said as she let go of his hand. “No one should be outside in this weather.”

Charlie didn’t mean to, but her words stuck out, painfully, because not two weeks ago, Castiel _had_ spent his time outside in this kind of weather. Thankfully, he didn’t comment on this, and merely followed Charlie as she gestured them to step inside.

Gilda was waiting for them in the foyer, and smiled at Castiel as he removed his shoes.

“I’m Gilda,” she said, offering her hand, and Castiel took it faster than he took Charlie’s. “Or, well, you knew that.”

“I did,” Castiel said, but it was accompanied by a tiny smile.

Despite the awkward first impressions, the rest of the evening went well. Explaining Castiel’s true age and the origin of his powers took a little while, but Castiel handled it remarkably well himself, more amused about their interest than annoyed. Ed and Harry were unnervingly interested in Castiel, his life story, his powers, and all his experiences, and at some point, Charlie had to pull Castiel with her to the kitchen to help her “carry drinks,” just to give him a breather. Ash and Jo were more polite in their interest, but it soon became clear why: Ash openly told that he once wished for a car, and Jo revealed that she had wished for “something” and had gotten it. Garth wouldn’t stop asking Castiel about medieval history, unabashed in his curiosity, and, a bit surprised, Castiel told him everything he knew.

Amusingly, it turned out that Castiel’s knowledge had large gaps, since for a lot of historic moments, Castiel had been elsewhere, didn’t remember them happening, or didn’t understand what had been so groundbreaking about it.

“You remember the Black Plague, but you don’t know who was your king when you were born?” Garth asked, unbelieving.

“I told you, before I turned ten, I was too busy playing with wooden swords with my brothers to pay attention to politics,” Castiel reminded him, so seriously that Dean had to hide his laughter behind a cough.

The only ones who were more subdued in their interest were Harry the barista (“We really need to come up with a better nickname for you,” Charlie muttered) and Tessa, who politely talked about everything else but Castiel’s homelessness, his powers, or his past. Castiel seemed to appreciate that, and Dean half-listened as they talked a long while about the philosophical implications of being dead. So much of the discussion flew over his head that Dean was glad when Charlie interrupted them to set up the board game of the night.

Dean had worried beforehand that Cas wouldn’t understand the games they’d play, but again, his anxiety turned out to be unfounded. Castiel hadn’t played _Red November_ before, but once Charlie explained the rules to him, he proceeded to dominate the game. Even Tessa seemed surprised, but gladly gave in when she noticed that Castiel’s tactical decisions turn out to be the best.

“I was raised a soldier,” Castiel reminded Dean at some point. “I’ve lead armies into battle. I’ve more tactical knowledge than all of you combined.”

“Show-off,” Dean muttered, but he couldn’t help but smile at seeing the confidence in Castiel. It was easy to forget that his awkward, big-eyed look of helplessness was just an exterior. There were centuries worth of knowledge, experiences, and stories inside his mind, more than Dean could comprehend.

They played well into the evening, and it was nearing twelve when the group finally started to dissolve. Gilda retreated first, yawning widely, and sleepily hugged everyone before she disappeared upstairs. Castiel accepted her hug, seeming surprised, but Dean noticed how his fingers lingered a tad too long on Gilda’s shoulders, and how he lightly brushed her hair. The odd twinge of jealousy was soon replaced with the realization that it might’ve been a long, long time since someone had touched Castiel in a friendly way. Cas hadn’t talked much about his time on the streets – he much preferred to share stories of times before Dean’s birth, if only because Dean’s wide-eyed gaping seemed to amuse him – but Dean had gathered from the bits and pieces of information he gave that it hadn’t been easy. As Cas had once told him, “People are better at paying attention to those on the same level as them.” He had meant the street level compared to the hidden-away alley, but the sentence worked in a different context, too.

Jo invited Castiel to join her at the bar some time, muttering something about showing him how well her wish worked out. Dean still didn’t know what she meant by that, but Castiel smiled knowingly, so that was a win.

Castiel was still quietly conversing with Jo when everyone else left, and Dean tried to give them some space by following Charlie into the kitchen, and helped her put the dishes away. Charlie nodded her thanks as she put the plates in the dishwasher, and Dean leaned against the counter as he waited for her to finish.

“He’s nice,” Charlie finally said, breaking the silence.

“Yeah.”

“And…” She searched for a word, pursing her lips. “He’s interesting. Well, you know, living for eight-hundred years kind of makes you interesting by default, but he’s…”

“Nice and funny, and so much older than us,” Dean finished. “Yeah.”

“This is awful, but I… It never occurred to me to actually _talk_ to him. If I’d actually thought about it, or talked to him—but it never occurred to me. He was just always there, you know. Silent in the shadows. So I just ignored him.”

“I know,” Dean said. “I did the same. Everyone did.”

Charlie seemed a little pained by that realization.

“You’re not the only one, Charlie,” Dean continued. “I don’t think anyone’s ever thought about helping him. He said he’s been here for ten years, and…You know. People get used to things.”

“Ten years,” Charlie muttered. “I’ve lived here my whole life, and I never even noticed when he arrived, or how long— _ten_ years,” she repeated, sounding horrified.

“Yeah,” Dean said, unable to think of a reply to that.

They stood in a silence for a moment. Charlie was lost in her thoughts, and Dean had nothing to say. But just as quickly as the moment came, it passed. Charlie straightened up.

“Well, he’s not alone anymore,” she said, and with so much conviction that Dean believed her.

Jo was putting her coat on when Dean and Charlie emerged from the kitchen, and Charlie went to hug her goodbye. Dean and Castiel wished her a good night as well, and after the door slammed shut after her, they stood in the foyer for a moment, before Dean started to reach for their coats, and Castiel took the hint as well.

“We better leave, too,” Dean said. “Let the mistress of the house get some rest.”

“Hey, if anyone’s the mistress of the house, it’s Gilda.”

“What does that make you?”

“The queen, of course,” Charlie said with pride. Dean chuckled, but Castiel seemed unsure about the joke.

“Alright, we’re going. Thank you granting us an audience, your highness.”

Charlie nodded at Dean, as gracefully as if she truly was a queen. Her eyes shifted to Castiel, expectant, and Castiel nodded as well.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Castiel said, even if he knew that this had been Dean’s idea. Charlie shook her head.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, “and sorry we didn’t invite you sooner. You’re welcome anytime you like.”

Castiel lit up at that, and Charlie seemed to really mean it, judging by the hug she gave him. Again, Castiel lingered a little longer than what was socially acceptable, but Charlie didn’t mind. She clapped him on the shoulder, and turned to hug Dean. She whispered to him as they parted, “This was a great idea. He’s great. And I’m serious, he’s welcome anytime.”

Dean patted Charlie awkwardly on the head and pretended that he didn’t get a little teary-eyed at that.

Castiel wasn’t as quiet on the drive home as he was before they arrived. He seemed a bit hesitant, a bit confused, but when Dean prompted him to talk about the evening, he relaxed. The more he talked, the more he smiled, and the more Dean’s silly little heart started to flutter as he listened to Castiel laugh about Garth’s never-ending questions about the plague.

“People are always interested in the morbid, I guess, but that seemed a little excessive,” Castiel mused.

“Hey, pain and suffering are the cornerstone of literature.”

“I cannot comprehend that someone would want to read about that, when there’s the option of immersing yourself in happy things.”

“Tell that to the entirety of modern literature,” Dean argued.

“Pain and suffering get repetitive and…boring, when you encounter them constantly. You shouldn’t get used to them,” Castiel said. Dean snorted, but couldn’t think of a reply. Castiel was clearly speaking from experience.

“Garth’s a bit out there,” Dean admitted then. “But he’s a good guy.”

“Oh, I know,” Castiel said. “He’s never wished anything for himself.”

“Huh?” Dean couldn’t properly turn to look at Castiel, because he needed to keep his eyes on the icy road, but he glanced at Cas from the corner of his eye. “Never wished anything for himself? Is that even possible?”

“His one and only wish was for the town to be spared from heavy storms and natural disasters,” Castiel said. “I couldn’t grant that, not entirely, because directing weather for an unlimited time is too much strain for my powers, but I could lower the possibility of extreme weather conditions for a year or so.”

“Good guy Garth,” Dean muttered. “Wouldn’t have guessed that. And I thought you said you weren’t a witch.”

“I never said that.”

Dean tore his eyes from the road, only to see that Castiel was grinning widely and laughing at Dean’s shocked expression.

“Very funny, asshole. Next you tell me you need someone to kiss you to turn into a handsome prince.”

“I’m not handsome already?”

Dean barked a laugh, unable to answer. He was really enjoying Castiel showing more and more of his sense of humor, although every time it happened, it still caught Dean by surprise.

He huffed, keeping his eyes resolutely on the road. “I’m glad you had a good time there.”

“Me too,” Castiel said, and Dean hid his fond smile.

The apartment complex was dark and quiet when they arrived _home_ – it had only been two weeks, but Dean had started to think of the apartment as his home as well as Cas’s, and he didn’t want to change that. He also didn’t want to think about the future, if Cas wanted to stay or if he wanted to leave, and whether Dean would be alone again. For now, this was fine.

Dean let Castiel go to the bathroom first to brush his teeth, and took the time to change into his sleeping t-shirt and arrange the three pillows on the bed to his liking. When Castiel returned, Dean took a breath and decided to go for it.

“Hey, uh. Cas.”

“Yes?”

Dean hesitated, but only for a moment before giving in to what he wanted to do. His heart thumped loudly, the _ta-ta-ta-TA_ rhythm filling his ears, as he stepped close to Castiel and enveloped him in a hug.

Castiel was startled, clearly, but he didn’t hesitate to hug Dean back. Big, warm hands fell on Dean’s shoulder blades, and Dean let himself be pulled much closer than he had anticipated. He leaned his jaw on Castiel’s shoulder, letting every bit of tension bleed out of him, and sagged against Cas. Cas held him steadily, leaning on Dean just as heavily as Dean was leaning on him, and for a moment, Dean closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth and closeness of it.

“Thank you,” Dean whispered.

“For what?” Cas muttered.

“Nothing,” Dean said. Reluctantly, he took a step back, and Castiel released his hold slowly, letting his palms slide down Dean’s back in a manner that felt too intimate, yet not close enough. Dean wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

“Um, good night,” Dean said, quickly.

Cas smiled, and Dean’s heart started the loud thumping again.

“Good night, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

 

November went on, and suddenly, it was almost Thanksgiving. The week before, Dean had shot a text to Charlie, vaguely asking about her plans, but Charlie had immediately seen through his ploy and called Dean to say, “You’re an idiot. Of course you’re invited for Thanksgiving, where did you think we were celebrating it?”

“Well, I just kinda thought you might have family coming over, or—”

“Dean, you’ve met my family. They’re over every weekend on board game nights,” Charlie huffed. “My parents are dead, and so are Gilda’s, and we have no extended family. It’s almost the same for everyone else in our awesome board game group, too. Why’d you think we made Christmas plans together?”

“You have Christmas plans?”

“Didn’t you get the invite?”

“I—well, I did, but…”

Gilda had invited him and Castiel to spend Christmas at their place a few days ago, but for some reason, Dean still had trouble accepting that people actually wanted to spend time with him and weren’t just asking for the sake of being polite. Being alone for so long had truly messed with his head, he noted. Maybe it was a good thing Charlie was so upfront about her friendship.

Besides, it wasn’t like he was going back to Kansas to his parents for Thanksgiving or Christmas – he had called his mom a week ago, and they’d had a pleasant if bland call, and at the end of it, his mom had wished him a happy Thanksgiving, fully implying that they weren’t expecting Dean to join them. Dean couldn’t fault them for that; Dean had left as soon as he’d been of age, and had been living on his own for so long that his life and his parents’ lives hardly crossed. As for Christmas, his mom had said that she and dad were going to fly out to California, to meet Sam and his new girlfriend. Since Sam hadn’t called him in so long that Dean hadn’t even known he had a new, serious girlfriend, Dean had taken the underlying hint. He wasn’t invited, so he had been content with his plan to stay at his apartment with Cas for the holidays, doing nothing.

“Do you have other plans?” Charlie asked, sounding amused.

“Good point. We’ll be there,” Dean promised.

And that had been that. Charlie expected Dean and Castiel to be there for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, and Dean couldn’t say that he minded at all. Dean just wasn’t sure how to explain that to Castiel – they hadn’t exactly talked about the holidays, nor about how long Castiel would be staying with Dean. With each passing day, Dean counted himself lucky that Cas was still there to brighten up his day – it was impossible not to smile at some of the things Cas said and did – but he had no idea how Cas viewed their arrangement.

Not knowing how to bring it up, Dean let the matter lie, until it was the last possible moment to mention it: on Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. When he returned from work, resisting the urge to shout, “Honey, I’m home,” because the joke would’ve gone completely unappreciated, Castiel came out of the kitchen.

“Hi, Cas,” Dean said, putting away his jacket and kicking off his shoes.

“Dean,” he said, looking spooked, for some reason. “You’re back early.”

“Uh, yeah, there wasn’t much to do at the garage, this time of year. Bobby closed the shop up early.” When Castiel didn’t answer, he gave Cas a curious look. “What’s up?”

“Nothing?”

“Right…” Dean said, taking a step toward the kitchen. Looking nervous, Castiel took a step backwards as well. Dean furrowed his brows.

“Cas, what is it? Did you try to cook?”

“I—yes, but…” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I think I broke it.”

“Broke what?”

Wordlessly, Castiel pointed at the stove, and Dean moved closer, taking a look at it. Castiel had managed to take chicken nuggets and French fries out of the freezer and place them on a baking sheet, like Dean had shown him earlier that week, and Dean couldn’t find anything wrong with that. But then he realized the problem: Castiel had turned on the oven, and despite having done that correctly, it hadn’t turned on.

“Sorry,” Castiel stammered. “I don’t know why it didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Dean said, shrugging. Mentally, he cursed himself for not mentioning this problem to Cas earlier: the oven was completely useless and two times out of three, it didn’t react on the first try. “It does that sometimes.”

He slammed the corner of the stove, and the oven light flickered on.

“See? You just need to give it a little nudge.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. You did say that your stove was ‘a piece of shit.’”

“Hey, I never used those words!”

“If you say so,” Cas countered, a small smile finally appearing on his face.

“Maybe I should just wish for a new stove,” Dean said. He turned to the fridge to take out a soda. “Or a completely new apartment. Maybe one without the leaking pipes and cracks in the wall. Golden taps would be a nice touch, don’t you think?”

“Oh. Maybe,” Cas said, busying himself with putting the sheet into the oven.

Dean took a long gulp of his drink, watching as Cas worked, handling the sheet and the oven door so carefully that you’d think they cost more than his life’s savings. Though he snickered on the inside at the sight, he didn’t say anything to Cas, and let him work in peace. The first time Cas had used the stove, Dean had went on a long tirade about fire safety and such, until Castiel had rolled his eyes and said, “I understand the function of the stove, Dean. It’s an invention older than you are.” That had quickly put a stop to Dean’s ramblings.

“So, hey, I was thinking,” Dean said, to distract himself, “tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. Charlie’s having a party, and I thought we’d get there early. I want to bake a pie,” Dean added, mostly to himself. He couldn’t wait to use Charlie’s huge kitchen instead of his tiny, barely working one.

“I thought Thanksgiving was traditionally celebrated among family,” Cas said.

“It is. Or friends.”

“And…you want us to go there?”

“Don’t you want to come?” Dean asked, a little nervous that Cas wouldn’t want to come. He’d still go to Charlie’s, but going alone felt…weird. He didn’t know how to feel if Cas wanted to stay alone at the apartment instead of going with him.

“Um.” Castiel blinked. “I…I suppose I do?”

“Great,” Dean said, gruffly. He took another sip of his soda, looking at Cas, and Cas stared back. Dean didn’t know what that look meant, so he said nothing.

“What do you usually do on Thanksgiving?” Castiel asked.

“Uh. Eat?” Dean said, and Cas laughed at that. “Hey, it’s a serious holiday! For eating turkey. And I guess spending time with people.”

“I’m sure,” Castiel said, a small smile lingering on his face.

“You’ll see tomorrow,” Dean said.

It didn’t dawn on him until they were on Charlie’s doorstep that perhaps Castiel hadn’t asked about Thanksgiving just because he wanted to know what Dean did on the day – Cas hadn’t ever given the exact details, but Dean had surmised that he hadn’t spent all his centuries in the US. Maybe he had never even spent an actual Thanksgiving with anyone?

That was an incredibly depressing thought, but luckily, Charlie opened the door and brushed that thought from Dean’s mind.

“You’re just in time!” she said, first pulling Dean into a hug and then Castiel. Cas, again, lingered a while longer than necessary, but Charlie seemed to have no problem with indulging him. “Ash is baking. Maybe you can convince him that it’s a bad idea.”

“What the…I said I would bake the pie!” Dean protested.

“And Ash insisted that he could do it himself,” Charlie said, shaking her head. “You better go in if you want to save the pie.”

“You’re damn right I do,” Dean muttered, marching in and leaving Cas and Charlie to converse by the threshold.

There was the sound of others sitting in the living room and talking and laughing, but in the kitchen, Tessa and Ash were standing by the table, arguing about something. There were bowls and spoons and all kinds of ingredients splattered all over the counter and the stove and the table, and Ash was trying to protect one bowl from Tessa.

“What’s going on here?” Dean asked, looking suspiciously at the mess.

“Hola, amigo!” Ash said, too cheerful compared to the state he was in – there was even batter in his hair, which made Dean shudder.

“Ash is cooking,” Tessa said, and the way she scrunched up her nose told Dean that she thought it was just as bad an idea as Dean had suspected. It smelled a bit funky in the kitchen, and whatever Ash was trying to make in the bowl hadn’t turned out right.

“What the hell is that supposed to be?” Dean asked, horrified.

“Pie crust!” Ash exclaimed. “But I dunno what happened. It doesn’t look like the picture in the recipe.” He shrugged. “But it’ll turn out fine once it’s in the oven.”

“Oh, hell no, this is a disaster. Move aside, I’ll fix this.” He grabbed the bowl from Ash and settled it onto the counter, quickly calculating what he needed in order to save the batter.

“Do you even know how to cook, man?”

Dean refrained from telling the whole sob story of how he had been cooking for himself, his little brother, occasionally for his emotionally unstable mother, and sometimes for a drunk father, ever since he was seven. Instead, he shrugged and said, “I know how to handle a spatula.”

“There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere.”

“Shut up. Now hand me that egg and let me fix this.”

Luckily, it turned out that Ash hadn’t managed to completely botch up the batter, and soon enough, Dean had turned it into a proper pie crust. Dean had tried to explain to Ash what had been wrong with the batter, and show him how to correct it, but by the time Dean was taking out the mixer, Ash had lost interest and had wandered to the living room to loudly argue with Jo about the latest episode of whatever-crime-show-of-week they both watched. Tessa, too, disappeared from the kitchen, and rolling his eyes dramatically, Dean continued to cook alone. That was, until Gilda appeared behind him.

“You’re missing something,” Gilda said, and before Dean could protest, she had slipped her hands around Dean’s waist from behind and started to tie an apron on his hips.

“Seriously?” Dean grumbled.

“Do you want to mess up your pants?” Gilda asked, her voice only slightly wavering at the end of the sentence. “And now we match!”

Dean rolled his eyes – the soft pink apron with white lace trim looked like something out of a _Country Living_ magazine. Gilda was wearing the exact same model, although her apron was soft green. She took her place next to Dean by the counter to get started on the main course.

“Aww, don’t be like that,” Gilda teased him when Dean frowned. “We look cute, don’t we?”

“Yeah, very cute,” Dean sighed.

Dean reconsidered that not a minute later when there was a snap of the camera, and he turned to find Charlie by the kitchen door, lowering her phone and grinning. Castiel, standing beside her, seemed unimpressed.

“Blackmail material,” Charlie said, cheerful.

“Your wife is wearing the same outfit, Charlie. An apron in the kitchen. I don’t think that’s anything to blackmail them about,” Castiel noted. “Besides, Gilda is right. You do look cute.”

“See? Cas likes it, so your opinion isn’t valid,” Dean said, turning back to the batter. His lips twitched a bit, but he didn’t take off the apron. Cas agreed with him – a pink apron was a perfectly suitable outfit to wear in the kitchen, right?

The fact that Cas had called him ‘cute’ in said outfit had nothing to do with the way Dean refused to take the apron off until he was done cooking. Or the way his neck burned for the rest of the evening.

Castiel and Charlie kept him and Gilda company while they prepared the meal, with others flitting in and out of the kitchen, mostly to ask whether the food was done yet. Dean had been somewhat right – Cas had been at Thanksgiving dinners before (“Four decades or so ago,” he shrugged, once again reminding Dean of the strange age difference between them), but he’d never prepared the food for that, and kept a close eye on Dean and Gilda as they cooked. More than once, Dean backed away from the counter to fetch something, only to bump into Castiel, who was standing right behind him. Dean didn’t mind all that much, having gotten used to Cas’s close attention, but Gilda lifted her brows at them when she saw it happening.

Thankfully, Ash hadn’t touched any of the other dishes in the kitchen, so Gilda and Dean were able to prepare everything else with little fuss. Since there were ten of them and only four chairs in the kitchen, they spread out to eat in the living room, and it almost felt like any other of their board game nights as they sat on the living room floor and had the plates on their laps like mature adults. Gilda tossed a pea into Charlie’s hair when she muttered something about “someone” not wanting to buy a proper table, because it would have messed up the “proportions” of the kitchen.

The meal was comfortable and their discussion easy; Cas, now having been introduced to the group, fit in much easier, and even if Garth still wanted to question him about medieval history, to Dean’s delight, Cas wasn’t treated as a fascinating stranger to be ogled by the group anymore.

Everyone was warm and happy as they finished the meal, and Ash openly clapped when Charlie brought out the pie Dean had baked. Everyone dug in with enthusiasm, and Dean grinned when he saw how they helped themselves for seconds.

“Dean, this is great,” Tessa mumbled around a piece. “And the fact that you managed to salvage this from whatever Ash made…”

“It wasn’t that hard,” Dean said, a little embarrassed by Tessa’s attention.

“Hey, I saved a meal after Ash, too!” Charlie protested.

“Why does everyone hate my cooking?” Ash muttered from the background, but was ignored by all except for Harry, who helpfully commented, “Because it’s inedible. _I_ could've told you that.”

“Sweetie, there was nothing to save. You just put the turkey in the oven,” Gilda said.

“I still helped,” Charlie insisted.

“If you say so, dear.”

“I’m serious, Dean,” Tessa continued, ignoring Charlie and Gilda playfully dueling with their forks. “If you wanted to, you could be a professional cook.”

“Nah,” Dean shrugged. “No education.”

“You should have. You have a natural talent.”

“Yeah, right. But, hey, Cas, could you deal with that?” Dean jokingly asked, nudging Cas, who was sitting next to him. Castiel’s fork clinked against his saucer, and he lifted his eyes, surprised. “I wish I was a better cook.”

“No, don’t do that!” Charlie exclaimed. “He’s already a good cook. If he becomes any better, he’ll become insufferable. And take over our kitchen permanently.”

“Are you still mad at me because I told you what goes into canned foods?”

“There are some things a girl never needs to know.”

Everyone laughed, and it was a nice moment, but Dean spotted that Cas’s smile felt forced. He didn’t laugh, and he turned back to his pie, cutting it into pieces with unnecessary force. Dean furrowed his brow – maybe Cas didn’t like the pie?

But the moment passed quickly, and Dean wholly forgot about Castiel’s mood when Ed and Harry started to argue about what went into canned foods, and whether or not Illuminati was behind the conspiracy involved in that. The conversation after that theory surfaced was lively, to say the least.

By ten o’clock, Dean was so full that he feared he might not fit behind the Impala’s steering wheel anymore, and Castiel seemed tired, so they said their goodbyes and left. It had been a nice evening, even if Garth had monopolized Castiel’s time for most of it, seeming endlessly fascinated with Cas’s past and asking him question after question. Dean had occasionally glanced at them, conversing on the couch, but Castiel hadn’t seemed to mind Garth’s enthusiasm that much, so Dean had left them be and returned to his mission to help Charlie convince Gilda to watch the original _Star Trek_ series that she for some reason had never watched. (They hadn’t succeeded, and Dean had regretfully told Charlie that she may have to reconsider the validity of her marriage. Gilda had hit him with a pillow.)

“Dean?” Castiel asked suddenly, as they had been driving home in silence for a while.

Dean glanced at him quickly before turning back to watch the road. Cas was staring out of the window, watching the glittery snow.

“Yeah?”

“Do you wish to become a chef?”

“Huh?” Dean blinked. “No?” It took him a moment to understand what Cas was referring to, and he groaned when he realized that. “Ahh, no, Cas, that was just a joke. I like to cook, but I don’t wanna be a chef. Besides, I told you, I’m trying to get into college to become a nurse.”

“Ah. Forgive me,” Cas muttered. “I thought you might have wanted to wish for that, as well.”

“Well, I don’t. If I get to become a nurse, that’s helluva lot more than I ever thought I’d get out of life.”

Castiel turned to look at him. “You are exceptionally hard on yourself, Dean.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve granted thousands of wishes for thousands of people over the years, Dean. The way I see it, you are among those few who truly deserve to get theirs granted.”

Dean didn’t know what to make of that confession. His cheeks heated up, and unable to look at Cas, he stared at the road.

Finally, after a short silence, Dean managed to mutter, “Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel nodded, and turned back to stare out of the window. Even if he wasn’t looking at Dean anymore, Dean still felt the weight of his eyes on the side of his face, and the attention burned him.

 

* * *

 

December arrived, and their routine continued. Dean worked during the day, and came back to Castiel in the evenings. The dread that clung to his stomach slowly lessened, with each time he came home and saw that Castiel was still there, that Cas hadn’t left him. It was pointless to worry about that, he realized, because there was nothing to keep Castiel here, except for a warm shelter and regular meals, and Castiel could have easily left this behind, if he found something better.

Besides the company, Dean didn’t have much to offer – he still hadn’t figured out a way to break Cas’s curse, and to his shame, he didn’t even know where to look. The library had been useless, and while the Internet had yielded some results on curses, most descriptions were clearly fictional, and not one article had helped to break Castiel’s. Since he didn’t want to disappoint Cas, Dean hadn’t told him any of this. As December went on, though, Dean became more and more nervous that his search for a cure was useless, and feared that Cas might get tired and leave before Dean could do anything about it.

Dean had told Castiel that he could freely browse the apartment – it wasn’t like Dean even owned anything he especially liked to hide, excluding the few porn videos on his laptop, which Castiel didn’t know how to use, anyway. But while Cas had grown comfortable being in the apartment, most of the time, Castiel didn’t seem to touch anything besides the bookshelf and the fridge. Dean supposed that it made sense: books were easy to understand, and they had been around ever since Castiel was born. Food was just as easy to understand, even though the methods to preserve it had varied during the centuries.

Dean worried that Castiel might get bored, being alone in the apartment, but that didn’t seem to be a problem for Castiel: usually, he came back to find Castiel reading on the couch. Dean had only one set of keys, so Castiel couldn’t leave the apartment without him, but once or twice a week, they went to the library together, and Castiel loaned a huge pile of books that he read with alarming speed. There were loads of things Dean wanted to show Cas, places he wanted to go with Cas, but this time of the year, neither of them wanted to leave the comfort of the apartment, and Dean told himself that come spring, if Cas was still with him, they’d do everything they’d missed out on so far. Besides, Cas was perfectly able to entertain himself: some days, Cas had even prepared a meal for them, and he’d developed his own opinions on what to buy from the grocery store, which they also visited twice a week. It had barely been a month, but it was starting to feel domestic, and Dean liked it.

One day, he came back to find Castiel fiddling with the TV remote. Dean had shown Cas how the TV worked a few times, and although he was interested, Dean hadn’t seen Cas trying to work out the TV on his own. Usually, he sat with Dean, and they watched whatever dull shows weekday TV had to offer. Now, Castiel stood before the TV, his brows furrowed, slowly pressing the buttons. He’d managed to turn the screen on, but he had pressed a wrong button or another to change the input, so there was only a “cannot display” text on the screen.

“Dean,” Castiel said. He sounded relieved, and then, suddenly, he glanced at the TV and flinched. “I—I’m sorry, I think I broke it. I didn’t mean to, I’m sor—”

“What? No, it’s just on the wrong channel,” Dean said, caught unaware by Castiel’s outburst. He put his coat away, walked over to Cas and grabbed the remote. With a press of a button, he chose the right input channel, and just like that, a football game appeared. Castiel’s shoulders hunched, and he looked relieved.

“Here, you can browse, if you want,” Dean said, handing the remote back to Castiel. Gingerly, Cas took it. “I need some grub.”

“I made sandwiches,” Cas said. He wasn’t looking at Dean, and instead, kept looking at the TV, a little frightfully. “They’re on the counter.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean said. He clapped Cas on the shoulder, and if he let his fingers brush against Cas’s shirt as he slowly retreated his hand, that was his little secret. Cas didn’t seem to notice, anyway.

When Dean came back from the kitchen, with the sandwiches and a cup of coffee – Cas had put the coffee pot on, too, something that had made Dean grin stupidly at nothing as he left the kitchen – Castiel was sitting on the couch and intently watching a movie. Dean thought he recognized it from a few lines, and when he saw Grace Kelly unsuccessfully flirt with Cary Grant, he knew he was right.

“Have you seen this?” Dean asked, plopping down on the couch. He sat too close to Cas by accident, and their arms brushed as Dean corrected his posture, but he didn’t move away. It would have been rude to move, Dean reasoned.

“No,” Cas said.

“It’s a classic,” Dean said. “Man, Hitchcock really knew what he was doing.”

Castiel shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” he said, and something in that tone made Dean shift even more towards Cas. Their eyes locked, and it took a moment before Dean got over his confusion and asked,

“Have you ever watched a movie before? Besides with me?”

“I have,” Castiel said, a bit defensively. But then he averted his gaze and continued, “Just not in…” Castiel fell silent. “In decades, I suppose. I did see _Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs_ , when it was released.”

Somehow, that didn’t surprise Dean at all.

“Why _Snow White_?”

“I was invited to the premiere.”

“Invited,” Dean repeated. Castiel gave him a wry smile, the one that Dean had learned meant that he was making fun of Dean in some sly way, waiting to see how far he could stretch the story before Dean called bullshit. Dean didn’t know why he liked it so much.

“I suppose Mr. Disney wanted to thank me for contributing to the production of the film.”

“Wait, what? You mean… You helped Walt fucking Disney make _Snow White_?”

“He was a good man, but too ambitious for his own good,” Castiel replied, perfectly at ease. “His dreams were bigger than his planning skills. He just needed some help at organizing his thoughts.”

“Oh man,” Dean muttered. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

“Are you disappointed that he needed help in accomplishing his dreams?”

“Nah,” Dean said. “Just…I always figured he was a loner. Did things his own way.”

“That he did,” Castiel muttered, rolling his eyes for further effect, and Dean snorted.

They continued watching _To Catch A Thief_ , although Dean’s focus was more on Castiel’s reactions than on the movie itself. He knew it was ridiculous to miss what was happening right now, but when he thought of the days to come and the fact that Cas never said he was here to stay, he could already feel the hollow in his chest. He wanted Castiel here with him, to watch silly movies with him and share his days with him.

It was silly to wish for that, but Dean did, nonetheless.

When the movie came to an end, Dean stopped Cas from standing up by placing a hand on his knee. Cas seemed startled, and Dean immediately removed his hand. Awkwardly, he glanced elsewhere.

“You know, we never talked about how long you’d be here,” Dean started. That certain blankness that plagued Castiel’s features when they talked for the first times was back, and Dean hated seeing him like that. Like he needed to hide, like he was steeling himself for a blow before it happened.

“I understand,” Castiel said, but Dean had the feeling that he didn’t understand at all.

“Look, I don’t know if you wanna leave, but… It seems like a waste, you leaving just before Christmas,” Dean said.

Castiel blinked, and then narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “You would share that with me? Let me stay for…Christmas?”

“Yeah, of course,” Dean said. He was a bit surprised by Cas’s shining eyes, but then again, the poor guy probably hadn’t celebrated Christmas with anyone in…

It was too depressing to think “centuries,” so Dean didn’t.

“I mean, don’t expect anything glamorous,” Dean coughed. “I’m not going to visit my family, and they’re not coming here, so it’ll just be you and me. And, well, Charlie was talking about some kind of Christmas party, so maybe we could make an appearance, and—”

“Dean,” Castiel said, and Dean swallowed when he saw how touched Castiel looked. “I would love to.”

“Yeah? Okay, um, great.” Afraid that he was going to say something even more embarrassing, Dean shut up.

 

* * *

 

As Dean had told Castiel, Christmas was a quiet affair. It was the first Christmas Dean didn’t spend with his girlfriend or with his family, and he wasn’t feeling particularly festive, so he didn’t plan on decorating or getting a tree. It wasn’t until Castiel asked what Dean usually did on Christmas that Dean understood that maybe he ought to do something. He wasn’t alone on Christmas, like he had thought he would be, and it did feel cruel to deny Cas a proper Christmas experience, especially when Dean asked him to be there.

When they talked about what to do on Christmas Eve, though, Castiel was weirdly fascinated by the different customs, and in turn, Dean was flabbergasted by some that Castiel apparently used to have.

“Christmas drinking games? What kind of heathens did you live among, Cas?”

“Are you telling me there are no Christmas drinking games in the US? How on earth do you _celebrate_ , then?”

In the end, Dean decided that if they were going to have Christmas, they’d have a _proper_ one. So, they ended up getting a tree – a very small one, but a perfect fit for the apartment – and Dean let Castiel decorate it with a level of seriousness only Castiel could manage.

“We never had a tree like this,” Cas explained when Dean had laughed at his seriousness one too many times. “I’ve never decorated a tree before.”

“Seriously?” Dean asked, feeling a bit bad about laughing at Cas now. “How’d you decorate, then?”

“We hung up holly and ivy,” Castiel said, concentrating on adjusting a bauble.

“Huh. Weird.”

“Maybe for you. But they kept the Devil away.”

Dean resolved not to ask any more questions, fearing that Cas might actually show him how the Devil was defeated by ivy.

On Christmas Eve, Dean took care of most of the cooking, and again, he was happy to put effort into it when he saw how delighted Castiel was as he tasted all the different kinds of food and clumsily attempted to help Dean in the kitchen. Castiel’s suggestion of drinking a particular type of ale had been too difficult to carry out (a quick round of googling told Dean that making ale like that had gone out of style centuries ago), and Dean had never even heard of the foods Cas tried to convince him to cook, but they compromised. Dean flat out refused to even try to call around shops to get a boar’s head, but putting goose on the table wasn’t difficult. Cas also insisted on preparing the fish that Dean had picked out, and seasoned it so strangely that it almost tasted like meat – it wasn’t bad, just strange. In turn, he seemed happy about the inclusion of chocolate and cookies in the meal. They cooked side by side, making an awful mess, but it was well worth the meal and the blinding smile Cas gave Dean as they sat at the table, in the soft light of the candles and with their bellies uncomfortably full.

“Better than drinking games?” Dean teased him, and Castiel harrumphed.

“You clearly haven’t tasted real ale. But it doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t do me good, anyway.”

“What, no good ale left in the world?”

“No,” Castiel said, “but I wouldn’t get drunk on it, anyway.”

“Is that another perk of being immortal? Having Captain America’s liver?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, but probably.”

Dean mentally added “superhero movies” to the list of things he needed to introduce Cas to, and led them from the kitchen to the couch. He let Cas choose a movie – it wasn’t a surprise when Castiel landed on a rerun of _It’s A Wonderful Life_ and let it play – and they watched it in comfortable silence. It was a nice, uncomplicated evening, topped off by the Christmas lights and the food, and Dean liked that. He fidgeted a little when the movie came to an end, and then decided to just go through with it. Somewhat clumsily, he retrieved the gift he’d been hiding next to the couch and pushed the package into Castiel’s hands the moment the bells stopped ringing on the screen.

“What is this?” Cas asked, carefully picking on the red wrapping paper and the gold bow over it. The package was soft, and held together with too much tape, because Dean’s hands had refused to coordinate as he wrapped the gift earlier, hiding away by the bed while Castiel cooked.

“It’s a Christmas present. Go on, open it.”

“Dean—I can’t accept—”

“It’s just one gift, man.”

“But I don’t have anything for you. I can’t even—”

Dean had to look away, because the broken expression Cas gave him was too much. He grunted, “Doesn’t matter. We never agreed on gift policy, anyway.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Castiel muttered quietly. He turned the packet over in his hands, brushing his hands along the lines of the wrapping paper, and very slowly started to tug at a piece of tape.

“What is this?”

“It’s tape, it—never mind, just rip it open.”

Cas did just that, and removed the paper with two strong tugs. Underneath was a brand-new red scarf (cashmere, for no reason – Dean had just felt like it should be the softest material ever, alright?). Silently, Cas picked it up and looked at it, awed.

“So you won’t get cold,” Dean mumbled. “And you can throw away that fashion disaster you’ve been keeping around your neck.”

“Dean,” Cas said. He couldn’t seem to get any more words out, and looked at Dean with moisture in his eyes. Dean blinked, blushed, and looked away, uncomfortable.

“Dude, it’s just a scarf. This ain’t on the level of, ‘Master has given Dobby a sock,’” Dean quoted, jokingly. He only got a blank look in return, and Dean latched onto that. “You don’t know Harry Potter? Man, I’m buying you the whole series for your birthday. Hey, when were you born?”

“Eight-hundred years ago,” Castiel deadpanned, and Dean collapsed into laughter, even if the joke wasn’t that funny. “Dean, I told you, I have no idea when I was born.”

“How the hell did you celebrate your birthday, then?”

“Birthday celebrations are a modern idea. But we had a coming-of-age celebration for all the boys in the village.”

“Sounds incredibly boring.”

“I can assure you, it was not. It was very violent.”

“Well that’s…fun,” Dean grimaced, but Castiel only smiled mysteriously, like he missed it. “Hey, if you want to have a proper birthday, we can just choose a date for you.”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said, slowly. He didn’t seem too keen on the idea, so Dean coughed and said,

“I’ll let you think about that. Hey, want some more pie?”

His other gift for Cas was burning in his pocket, but as Cas seemed so touched by the first one, Dean didn’t dare to ruin the moment. He’d give Cas the gift tomorrow – and maybe make Cas’s day then, too. Dean’s cheeks burned a little at the thought.

Thankfully, Cas didn’t notice how out of it he was for the rest of the evening.

On Christmas Day, they went to visit Charlie and Gilda’s place. The snow covering the house seemed more glittery, and more beautiful than anywhere in town, but when Dean made a comment about it, Cas only smiled mysteriously. It was still confusing to Dean where the limits of Castiel’s powers lay – controlling weather indefinitely was too much for him, but apparently, controlling a tiny area’s weather wasn’t.

Not everyone from their usual gang were there, but those without any other family were. No one mentioned it, but the knowledge of that hung in the air between them. Tessa and Ash were quietly conversing on the couch when Dean and Cas arrived; Garth was putting up some mistletoe in the living room and jokingly trying to chase Gilda with it. Harry the barista was sitting on a chair by the corner, looking amused by their antics, but seemed too nervous to take part in it. Charlie rolled her eyes when she led Dean and Cas to the scene.

“Garth does this every year, and it will never work. _I’m_ the only one who gets to kiss Gilda.” To Garth, she yelled, “Hey, hobo! Find your own wife!”

“But yours is so delightful!” Garth hollered back, making Gilda laugh. “Good people don’t grow on trees, you know.”

“What are you talking about? Just wish Castiel that you’ll meet her!”

“Oh!” Garth lit up, and immediately stopped chasing Gilda. “That’s right! You can do that, can you?”

“Of—of course,” Castiel said, but he looked a bit shaken.

“It’s not too much to ask, is it?”

“It’s fine,” Castiel assured. He looked at Garth, giving a quiet smile. “You wish to meet someone?”

“Well, yeah. I’d…it’d be really nice. And not just date her for a little while. For as long as you can do,” Garth added.

“It’s done. One soul mate, coming right up,” Castiel said.

“Whoo! Awesome, man,” Garth laughed, patting Castiel on the shoulder. “So when can I meet her?”

Dean stopped listening at that point, because Charlie bounced into the room, almost bursting with excitement.

“Everyone, look what my amazing wife got for me!” Charlie exclaimed. Proudly, she presented a box, lifting it in the air for them all to see.

“PlayStation 4?” Tessa asked. “What would you even do with that?”

“Watch movies, duh. And play the ten games she also got me.”

“You two are so gross,” Dean muttered, and Charlie hit him with the box. Luckily, it was empty, since the console itself was already in its rightful place under the TV screen. “And didn’t you own a game console before this?”

“Says mister ‘my apartment doesn’t even have working DVD player.’”

“Point taken.”

“My Nintendo 64 has served me valiantly all these years,” Charlie declared. “But more importantly, who wants to bet that Dean is the first person to throw their controller when he fails on the first stage of _Uncharted_?”

“Oh, you’re on.”

Dean made it five minutes before getting blown up on the screen, and muttering obscenities, shoved the controller back to Charlie. Grinning, Charlie took it, and continued to play, shooting enemies to death like a natural, accompanied by Dean’s eye-rolling.

“Charles, you realize that you’re about ten years late with this obsession?” Harry teased them as Charlie glided through the first stage.

“Harry, my man, right you are,” Ash said. “It’s not even a classic, like _Super Mario_.”

“I didn’t have time to get these games when they were first released,” Charlie muttered, blowing up another enemy. “The N64 is in the other room. Any Statlers and Waldorfs in present company can retreat to play there.”

“Thank you,” Ash said, rising from his seat and nodding at Harry. “Shall we?”

Tessa hid her giggles as the two left the room, looking much too pompous for two guys who were going to play Mario games. Dean immediately snatched the place Ash left on the couch, and gestured Cas to join him. Cas seemed relieved, probably because Garth hadn’t stopped pestering him about his future wife, and smiled as he sat to Dean’s right. With Tessa on Dean’s left, it was a tight fit, but they managed to all squeeze in. Dean didn’t mind the way Cas pressed to his side all that much, and even moved a bit closer to him – he was merely giving Tessa space, he reasoned. Garth came to lean against the couch’s arm, and Charlie sat on the floor, still making happy sounds as she killed enemies left and right.

“This is entertainment?” Cas muttered, frowning as he looked at the screen.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Shoot as many as you can before you’re dead. And I guess there’s a story somewhere.”

“There’s most definitely an interesting story!” Charlie countered, before picking up a shotgun and blowing an enemy’s head off. “Woo! Headshot!”

“I can see the appeal,” Cas deadpanned, and Dean laughed, surprised.

After a few minutes, Gilda called for Charlie from the kitchen, and Charlie handed Tessa the controller before standing up and going to help. Tessa was uncomfortable with the controls, and managed to die two seconds after pausing the game. It took her ten tries to make a particular jump, and just after that, she fell into another ravine. Everyone kept their groans politely inside, even if it was frustrating to watch her fail so much – though Dean knew that it wasn’t fair to think that, since he’d failed at the game just as much.

“God, I wish I was better at this,” Tessa whined. Dean felt Cas stiffen beside him, but ignored it, since right then, Tessa miscalculated another jump and fell to her death. “My eye–hand coordination sucks.”

“You just need more practice,” Garth comforted her. “Let me try.”

Garth was a bit better at the game than Tessa, and managed to survive the jumps she had failed to do, and even solved a puzzle on his first try, at which everyone cheered, but then he was ambushed by the enemies, and promptly died. His second try wasn’t much better, as he died in the exact same spot, and frustrated, he turned to Cas.

“Hey, Castiel, you wanna try this?”

“Me?”

Cas seemed unsure when Garth handed him the controller, and it took him a moment to understand which button did what, but he finally started to move on the screen, a bit haltingly. Dean bit his lip when the enemies rushed the screen, and expected to see the death animation within the next five seconds, but to his surprise, Cas cleared the hallway with ease. Slowly, he moved to the next spot, much slower than Garth had done, and managed to dodge the enemy fire this time around. By the time he had cleared the rest of the stage, he was grinning widely and everyone else was staring at the screen, slack-jawed.

“I’ll be damned,” Gilda said suddenly. She and Charlie had brought out the food from the kitchen, and were watching the screen just as surprised as everyone else as Cas was killing enemies left and right.

“You’re not allowed to play anymore,” Charlie muttered, taking the controller from Cas and putting the game on pause. “This isn’t fair to us mere mortals.”

Dean snickered. “Now who’s a sore loser?”

“Me? Never,” Charlie scoffed. “Now, who wants cake?”

Laughing and talking loudly, they settled down to eat. It was unlike any other Christmas Day Dean had ever had, but he didn’t mind at all. He was enjoying it too much to long for the days when he was kid and the best thing in the world was to wake up to unwrap the presents while his mom looked on with a smile on her face.

Dean had gotten a “Happy Christmas!” message from his brother in the morning, and before they dug into the food he had sent one back, but he didn’t call Sam. There hadn’t been any calls from his family in a month, and he didn’t know how to break the silence. He wasn’t sure what he’d even say. But all that was wholly forgotten as he talked to his friends long into the night, tucking himself firmly beside Castiel on the couch, and never leaving the wonderful warmth emitting from Cas.

All that heartbreak seemed rather meaningless compared to what he had here.

 

* * *

 

It was late when they got back to the apartment, and bone-tired, Dean passed out almost immediately, not even bothering to brush his teeth. He heard Cas putter around for much longer, before he, too, finally relented and went to sleep on the couch. It occurred to Dean that if Cas was to stay any longer, Dean should either get a bigger bed, or a more comfortable pull-out couch, but before he could contemplate on that, he fell asleep.

In the morning, Dean woke up to the feeling of being cold. It took him a moment to blink away the dream from his eyes and realize that the cold wasn’t coming from the dream; it was truly cold in the apartment.

“Cas?” Dean muttered, sitting up, flinching because of the chilly air, and draping the blanket over his torso.

Castiel was by the window, fiddling with the controls of the heater. The blanket he usually slept with was draped over his shoulders, and his brows were scrunched up in concentration. He was already dressed, but the collared shirt he usually wore wouldn’t do much to resist the cold. Dean vaguely thought that they really needed to go clothes shopping – Cas needed more variety in his outfits.

“It’s freezing in here,” Dean remarked. Cas flinched, looking up.

“Yes,” Cas noted. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to fix it.”

Dean blinked, and then groaned at the thought of getting up from the warm bed.

“Oh. Right, I never showed you how the heater works. Come on, this is easier than the microwave.”

Castiel huffed – he had hated learning how to operate the microwave, and had kept muttering something about “bad wavelengths.” Sighing, Dean got up from the bed, following Cas’s example and keeping the blanket around his shoulders. He crouched by the heater in the corner, and when he saw that Cas was looking over his shoulder, he showed how to turn the knobs and how to adjust the temperature.

Only, it didn’t work. It only seemed to get colder in the apartment, and the heater itself was freezing to the touch. Dean flinched and quickly retreated his fingers. Determined, he tried to adjust the temperature again, but it didn’t work. The heater was still as cold as ice.

It took him a few minutes, but he finally determined that the heater was simply broken. There was nothing he could do to fix it.

“Hey, man, could you help me with this?” Dean asked, frustrated. Cas had retreated to the couch again, and looked up when Dean addressed him.

“How?”

“I dunno, can I wish for the heater to repair itself?”

“I—” Castiel took a breath, glancing elsewhere. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“Heating technology is a little above your pay grade, huh?”

“Something like that,” Castiel muttered. “Excuse me, I need to…use the bathroom.”

“No problem,” Dean muttered, already looking into the problem again and dismissing Castiel’s retreating back.

Sighing, Dean made the uncomfortable call to maintenance, but of course, they weren’t working today. The earliest they could fix the heater was the next day, and once again, Dean cursed the cheap flat he lived in and its sub-par conditions. He briefly thought what it would be like to buy a house somewhere near Charlie and Gilda’s place, with a fireplace and a garden, and a garage for his car, and a library for all the books that Cas liked to read…

His heart jumped when he realized that Cas was included in this dream of the future. It wasn’t exactly clear if Cas had his own room in the house or did he share a bedroom with Dean, but Dean definitely didn’t live alone. Slowly, he smiled.

The gift Dean had forgotten to give Cas yesterday was still in his jeans pocket, Dean remembered. In light of the broken heater, it didn’t feel like much of a gift, but maybe it would make the cold morning a bit brighter.

Quickly, Dean jumped into his clothes, both because of the gift and because of the cold. He checked his pocket and smiled when he felt the box still there. Determined, he stood up – only, Cas wasn’t in the living room anymore. Dean never heard him go to the bathroom, either, and he furrowed his brows as he realized this.

“Cas?”

There was no answer, but the apartment wasn’t that big, so he took a few steps to check the kitchen, and then, suddenly, saw Cas by the front door. Cas had put on his new red scarf and trench coat, and was looking down at the ends of the scarf, fingers caressing the soft fabric. It looked like he was thinking something over, like he couldn’t decide what to do.

“Hey,” Dean said, uncertain. “We haven’t even had breakfast. Are you going out?”

“Dean,” Cas said, startled. He turned a little towards Dean, but wasn’t looking at him. Dean had no idea what the shifty eyes were for, but the whole scene made him uncomfortable. Dean felt something tighten in his throat.

“I was…yes, I was going out,” Cas muttered.

“Oh.” Dean swallowed. “Where to?”

Cas didn’t answer. He shook his head a little, and started to turn towards the door again.

“When are—are you coming back?” Dean forced himself to ask, before Cas could bolt out of the door.

“I’m not sure.”

“Oh.” Dean swallowed again. “That’s…okay. Um. You know you don’t have to leave, right?”

“I know.”

“Then…Do you _want_ to leave?”

There was a long, long stretch of silence. With each passing heartbeat, Dean became more certain that the answer was going to be “yes,” and Castiel just didn’t know how to say it without offending Dean. But when he glanced at Cas, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Cas seemed to be battling with himself, staring at the floor like his brain wouldn’t leave him alone. Dean had seen him look like that in the mornings, too tired to wake up – but never in this kind of situation.

“No,” Castiel finally forced out. Just like that, the tension left his body. “No, I don’t want to leave. But you’ll want me to leave, sooner or later.”

“What?”

“I meant what I said, Dean,” Castiel snapped. “It’s better for me to leave now, before you ask me to. It’ll hurt less this way.”

“What the hell, Cas? Where did you get the idea that I’d ask you to leave?” He forced out a chuckle, trying to diffuse the situation. “Unless you flooded the kitchen again with soap. I’m not cleaning that up a third time, buddy.”

“It’s not—Dean, I don’t…” Cas fell silent for a moment, and took a breath. “I’m of no use to you. I can’t even save your apartment from going cold. It’s better if I go now.”

“Cas, that’s bullshit,” Dean said. “And you don’t…what do you mean, ‘of use’?” It dawned on Dean in a horrifying flash. “Did—is that what you think of me? That I asked you here just to fulfill my wishes? Why would you think that, Cas?”

“Because that’s how you’ve been acting around me!” Cas snapped. “That’s how your friends have been acting! It never changes. People always want something – better apartment. Better skills. Wives. Husbands. Money.”

“What? They didn’t mean that, Cas, they were just teasing,” Dean tried, but Cas continued.

“People don’t want me for me,” Castiel said. “I’m merely a tool, a hammer they use to strike down the inconvenient nails in their lives. It’s in the nature of the curse.”

Cas was, unfortunately, right. Cas hadn’t taken their friends’ requests as teasing – he was so used to being treated like a convenient servant that he hadn’t even thought twice before submitting to his fate.

“I…I didn’t realize you’d take it like that. I’m sorry,” Dean whispered. “Cas, I swear, I didn’t mean it, and neither did any of them. I didn’t ask you here to be some kind of servant. I asked you here because I _wanted_ to.”

“It doesn’t matter. I have gotten to this point before,” Cas said. He sounded small, frightened, and Dean really didn’t enjoy him looking like that. Castiel usually felt larger than life, and seeing him flatten himself against the wall was making Dean’s heart hurt. “People have asked me to stay with them. And I stay, for a while, and it goes well, until they notice—notice that—”

“Notice what, Cas?”

“I can’t do it,” Cas muttered. “It’s…it’s part of the curse, that my powers…the longer I stay—”

“Your powers are fading,” Dean filled in. He suddenly realized why Cas had seemed so reluctant to joke about his powers lately, why he couldn’t fix the heater, why he hadn’t offered to grant any more of Dean’s wishes, like he used to.

“The longer I stay, the less wishes I can grant.” Cas looked down. “Some wanted to have their own live-in magician, so to speak, and were sorely disappointed.”

“Cas, I’ve told you before, I don’t care about the wishes anymore.” Dean swallowed. “Yeah, I can’t pretend I talked to you the first time out of the goodness of my heart, or just because I wanted to, but it’s not like that anymore. I didn’t ask you to stay with me so I could grow my own genie in a bottle.”

Despite himself, Castiel chuckled at that, and Dean cracked a smile as well.

“I like your company. I like _you_.” Perhaps more than he should, but Dean didn’t want to freak Castiel out or make him feel obligated, so he said nothing.

Castiel said nothing in return, and the silence grew uncomfortable soon. Dean forced himself to look away.

“It’s…Cas, I never thought this was about me. I’m sorry if it came off that way. You’re free to leave if you want to. I’m not stopping you if you do.”

“Alright.”

“Just…I was going to give this to you earlier,” Dean muttered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small box – actually, it was just a matchbox, not even wrapped, only decorated with one cat sticker Dean had found between the pages of a library book. With shaky hands, he handed it to Cas.

“What is this?”

Dean shrugged. Castiel took the box, eyes narrowed, and then opened it. Inside, there was a nondescript key – blinking, Castiel took it out and looked at it for a long while.

“I wanted you to have your own key,” Dean said. “It’s fine if you don’t want to, but I wanted you to move in here. With me. I just wanted you to be happy.”

Castiel whipped his head up, looking intently at Dean. Dean couldn’t interpret that look.

“Is that truly what you want?”

“What? Of course it is,” Dean said. “Well, I mean, I—I want more. I was thinking of getting a house, at some point, and I already thought that there could be a library for you and—okay that doesn’t make sense, but I thought—it’s stupid, but I kinda wished you’d stay with me. If you wanted to.”

Castiel looked stricken for a moment. Something seemed to change in the air between them: Cas took a breath, looked down at the key, then at Dean, and at the key again. He stared at Dean, eyes wide, almost pleading, and Dean recognized that look from before. Dean had to say something more.

Dean stepped closer, throwing all caution to the wind, and grasped Castiel by the sleeve. He wasn’t brave enough to take his hand, but as his fingers curled around the fabric, Cas covered them with his own. Dean rushed out,

“I want you to stay with me. Unless you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” Castiel said, sounding amazed. “I _want_ to.”

Something in the air shifted; it was such a small movement, like a gentle breeze going through the apartment, and suddenly, Dean felt warm. There was warmth in his chest, and for some reason, he knew that the same heat was burning up in Castiel’s chest. There was a flash of light, and then, just as suddenly as it had come, the warmth between them faded, the chill of the room returning.

“Dean, I—” Cas broke into a smile, and it was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen. “The curse is broken,” Castiel breathed. “It’s—I’m free. I’m _free_.”

“You—It’s gone?”

“It’s gone,” Castiel said. He laughed, and then surprised Dean completely by pulling him into a hug. Dean laughed as well, soaking up the happiness and the contact, letting Cas nearly crush him with the strength of the hug.

When they finally broke apart, Dean didn’t let go of Castiel’s sleeves. Not now, not now that he has the permission to hold on.

“I really don’t understand what just happened, but—”

“You.”

“What?”

“You broke the curse.”

“But I didn’t do anything. I thought—”

Castiel put his hand on Dean’s wrist, holding it loosely. Dean had a feeling that they were skirting along the edge of something here, something yet unnamed, but something that they both felt. It was a heady feeling on top of everything else.

“Dean, you’ve shared your life with me. Your home, your friends, the food on your table. You gave me everything you had, and asked for nothing in return.”

“So the curse wanted you to—”

“‘ _When someone offers everything they have, free of expectations, free of charge, from their free will, that is when you shall be set free_ ,’” Castiel said. He smiled as he said it, and Dean couldn’t help but smile back.

“You do realize that all I gave you was a crappy couch to sleep on and introduce you to trashy TV.”

“You introduced me to your life, Dean. You shared it with me.” Cas’s fingers tightened around his wrist. “That was enough.”

“Huh.” Dean chuckled. “So… No more powers, then.”

“No more powers,” Castiel nodded.

“So, what happens now?”

“I’m going to grow old,” Castiel said, “and at some point, I’m going to die.”

Dean glanced downwards, at Castiel’s fingers circling his wrist and his own fingers holding on to Cas’s arm. He tugged at Cas’s sleeve. “Do you regret it?”

Castiel raised a brow. “After centuries, I’m looking forward to it. I can _live_ again. I’ve heard there are some perks to being a mortal.”

They looked at each for a moment, considering.

“I mean, I could show you some,” Dean coughed.

Castiel stepped closer. Dean wasn’t sure whose heartbeat he could hear, banging loudly in his ears.

“Is that what you wish for?” Cas asked, somewhat teasing note in his voice.

“As long as you’ll stay,” Dean muttered.

“Then,” Cas smiled, “wish fulfilled.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading - please leave a comment or kudo if you liked this! Or you can hit me up on tumblr, [here](http://helakkas.tumblr.com/) or [here](http://justkeeponwriting.tumblr.com/)!


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